Melody Chavis loves natures. She believes bringing it back into the city is one way to help save her run-down, crime-ridden neighborhood. Planting trees along the street where she lives seems like one step in the right direction, but it turned out to be not quite so simple.
Street Trees
Melody Ermachild Chavis
I was drawn to my upstairs bedroom window by shouting in the street. The shouter was a middle-aged black man in shabby pants, and he strode, fast, right down the middle of the street. Storming across the intersection, the man beat the air with his fists and shouted into the sky. "Somalia!" he cried. "Somalia!"
Ours is a neighborhood where poverty and addiction have made misery for years, and this was when airlifts of food to the Horn of Africa were all over the nightly news. "I know what you mean," I thought. "Why there? Why feed them but not you?"
Then he walked up to the newly planted tree under my window, grabbed its skinny trunk with both hands, yanked it over sideways, and cracked it in half on his knee. He threw the tree's leafy top onto the sidewalk and stomped off, cursing. I pressed my palms to the glass as he disappeared up the sidewalk.
The tree was just a baby, one of the donated saplings our neighborhood association planted with help from the children on our block. Men from the public-works department had come and cut squares in the sidewalk for us, reaming out holes with a machine that looked like a big screw. The kids planted the trees, proudly wielding shovels, loving their hands in the dirt.
I had made name tags for each tree, with a poem printed on each one, and we asked the kids to give each tree a name. "Hi, my name's Greenie, I'm new and neat, just like the children on our street." If we made the trees seem more like people, I thought, the kids would let them live.
Both trees and people around here are at risk of dying young. After our neighborhood was flooded with crack cocaine and cheap, strong alcohol, things got very rough. In the last five years, 16 people have been murdered in our small police beat. Most of them were young black men, and most of them died on the sidewalks, where the trees witness everything: the children, the squealing tires and gunshots, the blood and sirens.
My neighbors and I did all we could think of to turn things around, including planting the trees.
But the dealers still hovered on the corners and the young trees had a hard time. Idle kids swung on them like playground poles, and peeled off strips of bark with their nervous little fingers.
One of the saplings planted in front of my house had fallen victim to a car, and now the other one had been murdered by a man mad about Somalia.
Discouraged, I let the holes in the cement choke with crabgrass. In the center of each square, a pathetic stick of dead trunk stuck up.
When things are bad, I stand in my kitchen window and look into my own garden, a paradise completely hidden from the street outside. For 15 years I've labored and rested in my garden, where roses clamber on bamboo trellises. Lemon, apricot, apple, and fig trees are sheltered by young redwoods and firs that hide the apartment house next door.
I often feel l'm gardening with my dear old next-door neighbor Mrs. Wright. An African-American woman from Arkansas, Mrs. Wright came to work in the shipyards during the war. When she bought the house next door this was the only neighborhood in town where black people were allowed to live. She was foster mother to many children, and she was sadly disapproving of the young people who used drugs when that started. Mrs. Wright farmed every inch of her lot, and had it all in food, mainly greens. She gave most of the food away.
Her life exemplified the adage, "We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden." I miss her still, although she died six years ago, in her 70s, after living here nearly 50 years. I was almost glad she didn't live to see the night a young man was shot to death right in front of our houses.
A map of the neighborhood 15 years ago, when my family came, would show community places that are gone now: bank, pharmacy, hardware and small, black-owned corner stores. There are a lot of vacancies now, jobs are gone, and people travel to malls to shop. Many families run out of food the last days of the month.
On my map I can plot some of what killed this community's safety: the too-many liquor outlets — nine within four blocks of my house; the drug dealers who came with crack about 1985. Clustered near the drugs and alcohol are the 16 murder sites: the 15 men, the one woman.
"I want to get away from all this," I think often. But really getting away would mean selling our home and leaving, and so far, my husband and I have been unwilling to give up, either on our neighbors or on our hopes for helping make things better.
But we do get away, to the mountains. We've been walking the John Muir Trail in sections the last few summers. I've never liked the way it feels good to go to the mountains and bad to come home. That's like only enjoying the weekends of your whole life.
According to my mail, "Nature" is the wilderness, which I'm supposed to save. And I want to. But right here and now, if I go outside to pick up trash, I might have to fish a used syringe out of my hedge. That's saving nature too. The hard task is loving the earth, all of it.
The notes I stick on my refrigerator door remind me of the unity and sacredness of life. There's a quote from Martin Luther King, Jr. on "the inescapable network of mutuality. " I know I can't take a vacation from any part of this world.
Still, the habit of my mind is dual. This I hate:(the littered sidewalk); this I love:(the alpine meadow). I could get into my car and drive to that meadow. But when I drive back, the sidewalk will still be dirty. Or, I could stay here, pick up a broom, and walk out my front door.
The sidewalk yields clues that people have passed this way, like trail markers in the mountains: candy wrappers the kids have dropped on their way back from the store; malt liquor cans and fortified-wine bottles inside brown bags. Sometimes there are clothes, or shoes, or car parts. I tackle it all in thick orange rubber gloves, wielding my broom and dustpan, dragging my garbage can along with me. I recycle what I can. "This is all sacred," I tell myself. "All of it. "
There are bigger waste problems. But when I think about the ozone hole, I find that it helps me to clean up. Thinking globally without acting locally can spin me down into despair.
Or into anger. I know that other people somewhere else made decisions that turned our neighborhood, once a good place, into a bad one. Like the alcohol-industry executives who decided to aim expensive ad campaigns at African-American teens. I know decisions happen that way to the old-growth forests, too.
I went to a lecture at the Zen Center not far from my house, to hear the head gardener there. She talked about what is to be learned from gingko trees. I've always liked their fan-shaped leaves, bright gold in the fall, but I hadn't known they were ancient, evolved thousands of years ago. They exist nowhere in the wild, she said, but were fostered by monks in gardens in China and Japan. Somehow, gingkos have adapted so that they thrive in cities, in polluted air. They remind me of the kids around here, full of life in spite of everything.
The day after the lecture, I went to the nursery, ready to try planting trees again in the holes in the sidewalk. Now in front of my house are two tiny gingkos, each inside a fortified cage of four strong metal posts and thick wire mesh. To weed them, I kneel on the sidewalk and reach in, trying not to scratch my wrist on the wire.
Kneeling there, I accept on faith that this little tree will do its best to grow according to its own plan. I also believe that every person wants a better life.
梅洛迪·查维斯热爱大自然。她相信把大自然带回城市是帮助挽救她那衰落的、频频发生犯罪活动的住宅区的一种办法。在她居所的街道旁植树似乎是迈出的正确可行的一步，但结果表明事情并非那么简单。
街树
梅洛迪·厄玛蔡尔德·查维斯
街上的喊叫声把我吸引到楼上卧室的窗边。喊叫的是个穿着破破烂烂裤子的中年黑人；他沿着街道中央大踏步快速走去。那汉子一边闯过十字路口，一边挥舞拳头，仰天大吼。"索马里!"他喊道，"索马里!"
多年来，我们的住宅区因贫困和吸毒一直处于悲惨境地，这事发生期间，夜晚新闻中正广为报道空运食物到非洲之角的消息。"我知道你是什么意思，"我想，"为什么运到那儿？为什么给他们吃而不给你吃?"
过一会儿，他走到我窗下最近种的一棵树旁，用双手抓住细瘦的树干，使劲往一边拔，放在膝上拗成两半。他把带叶的树梢扔到人行道上，一边咒骂一边噔噔地踩着重步离去。我把手掌紧紧贴在窗上，看着他在人行道上渐渐消失。
这棵树还十分幼嫩，是捐赠的树苗，那批树苗是由我们的邻里协会在我们街区孩子的帮助下种的。公共工程部的员工来过这儿，为我们在人行道上划好方块，用看上去像一只大螺丝钉的机器在地上打洞。孩子们自豪地挥动铁锹把树苗种下，非常喜欢手放在泥土里的感觉。
我给每棵树都做了块牌子，在每个牌子上都印上一首诗。我们让孩子们给每棵树起个名字。"喂，我的名字叫绿树秧，全身整洁披新装，就像咱们街上的小儿郎。"我想我们把树人性化，孩子们会让它们活下来。
这儿的树和人都有夭折的危险。强效纯可卡因和廉价烈性酒充斥我们的住宅区后，情况变得十分糟糕。过去五年中，在我们这个小小的警察巡区里就有十六个人被谋杀。他们中大多数是黑人青年男子，大多数都死在人行道上，那儿的树木目睹了一切：孩子们、发出嘎吱声的轮胎、枪击、鲜血和警报器。
为了使我们住宅区的情况有所好转，我和邻居们做了我们所能想到的一切事情，包括植树。
但毒贩们依旧在街角转悠，幼树正在遭罪。无所事事的孩童像在操场上玩杆那样抓着幼树摆动身子，还紧张地用小小手指剥下一片片树皮。
种在我屋前的一棵树苗已被汽车压死，现在另一棵被一个对索马里极为愤怒的汉子毁掉了。
我失望得很，让水泥围着的洞穴里长满野草。在每个方块中央都竖立着一根可怜巴巴的枯死的树干。
有什么不顺心的事情时，我就站在厨房的窗前，望望自己家的花园——一个完全不为外面大街所知的天堂。十五年来，我在花园里劳作、休息，那儿玫瑰爬在竹棚上。树龄不长的红杉和冷杉遮住了隔壁的公寓房，还给柠檬树、杏树、苹果树和无花果树挡风避雨。
我经常觉得自己在和亲爱的隔壁老邻居赖特太太一起在园中干活。赖特太太来自阿肯色州，是非洲裔美国妇女，在二战期间到造船厂工作。当她买下隔壁那所房子时，这里是本市唯一允许黑人居住的住宅区。她是许多孩子的养母；这里有人开始吸毒时，她感到很伤心，反对年轻人吸毒。赖特太太在自己那点土地上全都种了东西，种的全都是吃的，主要是绿叶蔬菜，大部分送人。
她的一生说明了这一格言，"我们来自泥土，我们归于泥土，在此期间我们在园中耕耘。"现在我依旧思念她，虽然她在六年前去世了，当时七十多岁，在这儿已住了近五十年。令我感到近乎高兴的是，她没有活着看到那天晚上一个年轻人就在我们寓所前被枪杀。
十五年前我家搬到这儿来时的一张地图会告诉你现已不复存在的一些社区场所：银行、药房、五金店以及黑人的街头小店。现在这儿许多房屋空着，活计没了，人们得去购物中心买东西。许多家庭一到月底就没吃的了。
我可以在我的地图上标出一些使我们社区失去安全的因素：太多太多的酒铺——我家周围的四个街区里就有九家；约于1985年携带强效纯可卡因来到这儿的毒贩。在这些贩毒品卖烈酒的地方附近是十六个谋杀现场：被杀害者中有十五名男子和一名女子。
我常想："我要逃避生活中这种种烦恼。"但真的离开就意味着卖房走人，到目前为止我和丈夫都不愿离开，既不愿放弃邻居，也不愿放弃帮助改善这儿情况的希望。
但我们有时也真的会离开，到山里去。这几年夏天我们一个路段一个路段地走遍了约翰·缪尔小路。我从不喜欢到山里去觉得高兴、回家来就感到败兴这种思维方式。那样的话，就像人活一世却只有周末过得愉快似的。
根据我的字典，"大自然"是旷野，我应该拯救的旷野。我也愿意拯救。但此时此刻，如果我出去捡垃圾，也许会从树篱里捡出一个用过的注射器。这也是拯救大自然。艰巨的任务是热爱地球，热爱地球的全部。
我贴冰箱门上的短笺提醒我生活的统一性和神圣性。这上面有一条马丁·路德·金关于"无法逃避的相关性之网"的语录。我知道我不可能离开世界上任何一个地方去度假。
不过，我的思维习惯依然有两重性。这个我恨（到处是纸屑杂物的人行道）;这个我爱（高山草地）。我可以坐进汽车，驶向那个草地，但我驾车返回时，人行道仍是脏的。或者呢，我可以呆在这儿，拿起扫帚，从前门走出去。
人行道会提供有人经过这儿的线索，宛若山里的路线标识：孩子们从店铺回来的路上丢弃的包糖纸；放在棕色纸袋里的麦芽酒罐头和烈性葡萄酒瓶。有时有衣服或鞋子，或汽车部件。我戴着厚厚的橙黄色橡皮手套、拿着畚箕扫帚处理这一切，随手还拖着一只垃圾桶。我能回收的，我全都回收。"这些都是神圣的，"我对自己说，"全都是。"
还有更大的浪费问题。但当我想到臭氧洞时，我觉得它促使我去做清洁工作。想着全局而不从局部做起会让我陷入绝望。
抑或会令我发怒。我知道，是其它地方别的什么人做出的决定，才使得曾是我们美好家园的住宅区变成一个糟糕的地方的。比如，是酿酒业的老总们决定花大把的钱瞄准非洲裔美国青少年做广告推销酒的。我知道，同样的命运也降临到原始森林的身上。
我去离家不远的禅宗中心参加一个讲座，听那儿的首席园艺家讲话。她讲了能向银杏树学些什么。我素来喜欢银杏树在秋天呈金黄色的扇形叶子，但我并不知道它们是千万年前进化而来的古老树木。她说银杏树不是野生的，而是由僧侣在中国和日本的庭院里培育起来的。不知怎的，银杏树很能适应，可在城市里、在污染的空气里茁壮成长。它们让我想起这儿的孩童，不论怎样他们总是充满生命力。
听讲座后第二天，我去了苗圃，准备再试着在人行道的洞穴里种树。如今在我家屋前栽着两棵小小的银杏树，每棵都被围在由四根结实的金属柱子和厚厚的铁丝网做成的牢固笼子里。为了给它们除草，我跪在人行道上把手伸进去，当心着不让手腕被铁丝网划破。
我跪在那儿，心中坚信这棵小树会按照自己的方式尽量生长。我也相信每个人都想过更好的生活。
Key Words:
horn [hɔ:n]
n. 动物角，喇叭，触角，角状物，力量源泉
poverty ['pɔvəti]
n. 贫困，贫乏
beat [bi:t]
v. 打败，战胜，打，敲打，跳动
n. 敲打，
addiction [ə'dikʃən]
n. 沉溺，上瘾
misery ['mizəri]
n. 痛苦，悲惨的境遇，苦难
melody ['melədi]
n. 旋律，曲子，美的音乐，曲调
trunk [trʌŋk]
n. 树干，躯干，干线， 象鼻，(汽车后部)行李箱
sidewalk ['said.wɔ:k]
n. 人行道
association [ə.səusi'eiʃən]
n. 联合，结合，交往，协会，社团，联想
block [blɔk]
n. 街区，木块，石块
n. 阻塞(物), 障
crack [kræk]
v. 崩溃，失去控制，压碎，使裂开，破解，开玩笑
alcohol ['ælkəhɔl]
n. 酒精，乙醇，酒
screw [skru:]
n. 螺钉，螺丝，螺旋，螺旋桨，螺状物
sidewalk ['said.wɔ:k]
n. 人行道
=pavement（英）
beat [bi:t]
v. 打败，战胜，打，敲打，跳动
n. 敲打，
witness ['witnis]
n. 目击者，证人
vt. 目击，见证，出席，
rough [rʌf]
adj. 粗糙的，粗略的，粗暴的，艰难的，讨厌的，不适的
labored ['leibəd]
adj. 吃力的；费劲的；不自然的 v. 工作；劳动；分
choke [tʃəuk]
vi. 窒息，阻塞
vt. (掐住或阻塞气管)
bark [bɑ:k]
v. (狗)吠，咆哮
n. 狗吠，咆哮
idle ['aidl]
adj. 无目的的，无聊的; 懒惰的，闲散的; 无根据的
foster ['fɔstə]
vt. 养育，培养，促进，鼓励，抱有（希望等）
trunk [trʌŋk]
n. 树干，躯干，干线， 象鼻，(汽车后部)行李箱
kitchen ['kitʃin]
n. 厨房，(全套)炊具，灶间
victim ['viktim]
n. 受害者，牺牲
cement [si'ment]
n. 水泥，纽带，接合剂，牙骨质，补牙物，基石
stick [stik]
n. 枝，杆，手杖
unwilling ['ʌn'wiliŋ]
adj. 不愿意的
plot [plɔt]
n. 阴谋，情节，图，(小块)土地，
v. 绘
crack [kræk]
v. 崩溃，失去控制，压碎，使裂开，破解，开玩笑
community [kə'mju:niti]
n. 社区，社会，团体，共同体，公众，[生]群落
alcohol ['ælkəhɔl]
n. 酒精，乙醇，酒
stick [stik]
n. 枝，杆，手杖
vt. 插于，刺入，竖起<
network ['netwə:k]
n. 网络，网状物，网状系统
candy ['kændi]
n. 糖果
vt. 用糖煮，使结晶为砂糖
dual ['dju:əl]
adj. 双重的，成双的
n. 双数
hedge [hedʒ]
n. 树篱，篱笆，障碍，防护物，套期保值，推诿
wilderness ['wildənis]
n. 荒野，荒地
rubber ['rʌbə]
n. 橡胶，橡皮，橡胶制品
adj. 橡胶的
refrigerator [ri'fridʒə.reitə]
n. 冰箱
sidewalk ['said.wɔ:k]
n. 人行道
=pavement（英）
tackle ['tækl]
v. 处理，对付，阻截
sidewalk ['said.wɔ:k]
n. 人行道
=pavement（英）
spin [spin]
v. (使)旋转，疾驰，纺织，结网，眩晕
thrive [θraiv]
vi. 兴旺，繁荣，茁壮成长
spite [spait]
n. 恶意，怨恨
vt. 刁难，伤害
acting ['æktiŋ]
n. 演戏，行为，假装 adj. 代理的，临时的，供演出
wrist [rist]
n. 手腕，护腕
despair [di'spɛə]
n. 绝望，失望
参考资料：
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