A tumbleweed rolls across Hiawatha Avenue this grey, dreary Minnesota day. An oncoming car smashes its stickery form. Nearby grain elevators loom as relics of the past overlooking grain cars sitting idle on rusted rails -- empty of freight and of possibility. Yet progress is barreling down the other side of the road. Soon, sleek light rail passenger cars will rumble along Hiawatha Avenue bringing prospects for economic development. But what about those already trapped on the hell-bound train of poverty, ill health, and poor education? Will we look behind the grain elevators, underneath the bridges, and deep into the neighborhoods to find those who would benefit most from prosperity? Light Rail is leaving the station. All aboard or be left behind.
I am sitting at a bus stop on the corner of Lake and Cedar. The sun low in the southern sky warms my face this cold November day. Behind me, a "Closed for the Season" sign and a black wrought iron fence repel visitors to city's oldest cemetery, Minneapolis Pioneers and Soldiers Memorial Cemetery. A young man approaches wearing a hooded sweatshirt, ball cap, and a jacket covered with large logos of sports teams. A bus pulls up, blocking the sunlight. "Bridging the road to recovery" declares a sign on the side of the bus. An image of a bridge leading from the Witches Hat Water Tower in Prospect Park to a local rehab center illustrates the message. The bus pulls away, taking its shadow with it. The sun strikes my face like a heat lamp suddenly switched on.
It's lunch time at McDonald's on Lake and 31st this Halloween day. A bearded middle-aged man wearing his ball cap backwards and a grin on his pasty white face uses one leg to pedal his bicycle across the intersection into the MacDonald's parking lot. His left leg hangs stiff and straight, as he balances two wooden walking canes across the bike's handlebars. A tall, young black man on foot approaches the intersection carrying a toddler in his arms, not cradled, but held out from of his chest like one might carry a log. A black-haired young white woman wearing camouflage jacket and a black skirt and black work boots crosses the intersection towards the Saigon Garage. I notice the large tattoo on her right leg as she turns her head slightly revealing pink bangs. Across the street, a Latina woman waits at the bus stop, her MacDonalds' bag and soft drink rest upon the bench. A candy-apple red Corvette zips out of a side street onto Lake past the mural of the Native Academy where school children gather on the corner.