If I could describe DC in a color, it would be gray. Not a dusty, doleful, gray, but a plain one - the kind that seeps through cracks on brick walls, and lives through clouds in a rainfall. Gray is beautiful in its simplicity but it alone is not whole. It is a fraction of something, a reflection of someone, a segment of the world condensed in 80 district agencies and 177 embassies that dot its streets.
This is where there is power, but not everyone feels powerful. No, surely not the frail lady who pushed her walker along the edges of James Monroe Park, begging for strangers to help her call family. And neither, I supposed, was the small, sturdy man named Zafar, who flew in from Chicago to protest for his country, almost disappearing among the ripples of red and green flags in front of the White House lawn. Most certainly, someone who felt powerless, was the man who died in front of a grocery store in Chinatown - his body violently contorting in a seizure until it stopped – two charity workers holding his hands in prayer. In my one month in DC these are the stories I have seen. There are millions more hidden in the alleys, the shops, the streets, and perhaps even the offices of our dreams.
Of course, beyond its scars, DC has its beauty - sunsets at the harbor, purple bouquets at Georgetown, quaint bookstores in Dupont, the hustle at H Street, and power walks through Foggy. DC is certainly alive but rarely, in full honestly, does it feel lively. Living in DC seems to be proof of success, a hard-earned badge that demonstrates how one has reached the epitome of power. But how many people truly call this city home, and how many feel accomplished yet alone?
If DC could be a color, I'd call it gray. This could be my homesickness kicking in, and my firm belief that Asian cities are incomparably vibrant, but alas, the majority of DC to me seems to be as gray as a concrete mixture - solid, structured, yet silently somber.
- September, 2023
