Hiawatha Songs: A South Minneapolis Journal

Hiawatha Walking

Beginnings
October 2003. Neighborhood signposts emerge during a fall stroll beneath the canopy of trees north of Lake Street. The Art Car decorated in psychedelic colors sits idle in front of a Longfellow bungalow not far from the Community Black Board where neighbors post notices on a man's homemade yard sign. Men's work boots hang on a resident's fence for sale this Saturday morn. Tree leaves rich in orange and red colors flutter in a slight breeze against a blue Minnesota sky.

Step out into the Light of Lake Street. Experience the commotion, buses, people and a sense of a community becoming. "Make mine a Cubana, Manny." Many faces, many colors. "En Que Piensas?" Lake Street murals: Lindstrom's, the Americas, South High, and Salvation Army evoke life, legends, and the spirit of the land.

Old Man Winter gives Fall the boot
Dusk stirs swarms of black crows whose silhouettes against the orange ball of a setting Minnesota sun are Escher patterns in motion. Brick buildings on Minnehaha glow with the warm colors of day's end as nearby houses snuggle against grain elevators, as if seeking shelter from the cutting winter wind. The din of machinery inside nearby flour mills experienced over a lifetime numbs a worker's senses even as it seeps into his dreams.

Frozen trails, winter's grip
My boots make a crunching sound in the snow as I wander the railroad tracks behind the flour mills and grain elevators. -14 degrees. Click. Photograph. Walk. A solitary worker atop a grain hopper car strains against an errant hatch.

Minnehaha's "laughing waters" flow beneath the Hiawatha Avenue bridge on a course destined for the Mississippi River and the long journey to the sea. Ha! Minnehaha's frozen serene goes unnoticed overhead where drivers of speeding cars rush to and fro. Nearby, a dale flush with golden winter grasses nestles in a crook of Minnehaha's banks. The laughter of children ice skating floats in the air only to be muffled by the roar of distant jets taking off at the airport. Swoosh, skate, laugh. Minnehaha.

Of gutter balls & bull pens
A man shuffles along Hiawatha Avenue beside the spiffy $675.4 million Light Rail project. Shaggy hair protrudes from underneath a well-worn ball cap. His powder blue cap matches the Minnesota sky. His jeans, soiled with shit, hang low -- poised to fall from his scrawny butt. Where does this man journey? Where are we going as we pass him by?

Two worlds
A young mixed-race couple slogs their way through deep snow between 26th and 28th Streets in a DMZ between the haves and have-nots of Hiawatha Avenue. The man has a large plastic bag full of belongings slung over his shoulder as he cradles a small cardboard box under one arm. The woman, her head bowed, struggles with a heavy suitcase.

Cars zip by. Everyone is going somewhere. I wonder. What destination does the young couple have in mind? What hopes and dreams do they see in the road ahead?

Spring flows
Breathe deep. Exhale. Breathe. Each breath released into the chill becomes a wispy cloud floating ever so lightly above the stream before dissolving into the pale mist. The fullness of the moment warmed by a flush of relaxation pushes away thoughts of city living. Breathe deep. Exhale. Minnehaha's laughing waters flow to the sea.

Change is electric
Shinny electric train cars speed in near silence upon tracks that point to a city seeking a new direction. A Hiawatha Light Rail train on a test run glides into view of my camera's viewfinder. The train car driver, sporting sun glasses and a ball cap pulled down low over his face, is all business as he directs the train into the station, giving me only a slight nod in response to my wave.

Hiawatha Rising
Hiawatha. The round sound of the word's four syllables rolls from the lips with a final flick of the tongue. Hiawatha. The word evokes the spirit of the land where Minnehaha Creek spills into the Mississippi River. Hiawatha songs rise with the mist into the Minnesota sky.

Cantos al pubelo
June 26, 2004. Dance, Quetzalcoatlicue. Bless this day with the spirit from the four winds. A dancer coaxes a deep moaning sound from a conch shell as smoke from a smudge pot drifts in the air. The clang of an approaching train signals the arrival of Hiawatha Light Rail's first passenger train. Thunder clouds roll over a landscape of forest, lakes, and a great river as a city celebrates itself.

Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken;-
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Author's Note
This marks the last dispatch from The Hiawatha Project, a nine-month volunteer effort to explore Hiawatha Avenue's landscape, people, and sense of place. Learn more about the project at http://hiawathaavenue.com

�En Que Piensas?

Upbeat Latino music, shinny aluminum bar stools, and a twinkle in the eye of co-owner Victoria greets customers as they enter Manny's Tortas on 27th and Lake Street. Three grill cooks sporting bright purple, orange, and yellow t-shirts are color in motion preparing orders for the lunch crowd. Spanish chatter mixes in the air with smells of saut�ed fresh meats and onions. An offering of Mexican beers is smartly lined up on the counter top like soldiers mustered for review. And atop the coke machine, a small candle gently warms the presence of a Christ statuette.

Step away from the counter into an open space affording bold colors, high ceilings, and exposed duct work. Oranges and yellows abound. Two men at separate tables, seemingly lost to their thoughts, munch on torta sandwiches, while nearby a young Latina tends her baby. Large hand-painted lettering on the walls behind the diner's poses the question, "What's on your mind?" �En Que Piensas?" Snippets of a mariner's story of polar voyages are overheard.

Nearby, a middle-aged, balding gringo sits writing in his notebook, taken in by the moment. "�Ay! Qu� vida tenemos," he remarks to himself. Life is good -- una torta Cubana, a comfortable setting, and the time to enjoy it.

Spring Flows

The rock I am sitting on is cold against my butt as I contemplate Minnesota blue skies and the dull earth tones of the bare ground around me. The day is sunny but bitter cold.

A trail near Minnesota Veterans Home descends into a ravine where Minnehaha Creek sparkles in the sunshine. The trees lining the streambed are stiff figures of grey, their leafless and gnarly limbs testament to winter's harsh grip. A woodpecker flitters silently amongst the trees. The sun is full against my face, the rhythm of the gurgling stream mesmerizing.

Breathe deep. Exhale. Breathe. Each breath released into the chill becomes a wispy cloud floating ever so lightly above the stream before dissolving into the mist. The fullness of the moment warmed by a flush of relaxation pushes away thoughts of city living. Breathe deep. Exhale. Minnehaha's laughing waters flow to the sea.
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Becoming Minnehaha

Minnehaha Avenue spills out of the noisy riot that is Lake Street into a quiet boulevard where tall trees now bare of leaves promise a summer canopy of shade. Dusk stirs swarms of black crows whose silhouettes against the orange ball of a setting Minnesota sun are Escher patterns in motion. Brick buildings on Minnehaha glow with the warm colors of day's end as nearby houses snuggle against grain elevators, seeking shelter from the cutting winter wind.

God on a bumper sticker. Two cars pull up next to each other at the intersection of Lake and Minnehaha. One car sports a bumper sticker that beseeches "God Bless our Nation," while its neighbor�s declares "God Bless America." At the other end of Minnehaha, where the avenue flows into the beauty and grace of Minnehaha Park, another driver evokes a different power: a carefully airbrushed Superman shield on his pickup�s tailgate.

Future Unfolding

The din of the flour mill machinery experienced over a lifetime numbs a worker's senses even as it seeps into his dreams. The constant rumble of blowers, roller mills, bells, and buzzers muffles thoughts beyond the work at hand. Twelve hours a day. Seven days a week. Incessant vibration of machinery grates at a miller's faculties like wheat through a grinder.

Still the toil brings honor. Flour mill workers take pride in transforming grain into flour, especially Minneapolis millers. For they helped give rise to a blend of labor, capitalism, and technology that captured the power of the Mississippi River to create the milling capital of the world. Time changes everything. Shifts in the economy post World War I triggered a decline of the Minneapolis milling industry.

Look at Hiawatha Avenue grain elevators now. See relics of the past watching over the future unfolding across the street where shinny electric train cars speed in near silence away from the grain economy into the future. What future might that be? Consumerism, Mall of America? Or are we watching a city re-discover its river, its immigrant heritage, and the need to connect communities?
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Two Worlds

It's as if secret lair lies beneath Hiawatha Avenue between 26th and 28th Streets from which emerge people of the underground. South Minneapolis rail yards once commanded the area. No longer. The railroad tracks remain but rare is the sight of a train pulling freight. But rather the image is of pedestrians cutting across an open field littered with Light Rail construction debris. The door of a truck specially fitted to travel railroad tracks hangs open as if the driver suddenly abandoned his post. An underground plume of arsenic silently creeps towards the Mississippi, thanks to dumping from a former pesticide plant. A couple blocks away, west of Hiawatha on Lake Street, police run sting operations to snag prostitutes and their johns.

A young mixed-race couple slogs their way through deep snow in this DMZ between the haves and have-nots. The man has a large plastic bag full of belongings slung over his shoulder as he cradles a small cardboard box under one arm. The woman, her head bowed, struggles with a heavy suitcase.

Cars zip by. Everyone is going somewhere. I wonder. What destination does the young couple have in mind? What hopes and dreams do they see in the road ahead?

Force Lines

Deep blue Minnesota skies mark today's walk through the Hiawatha Avenue's grain elevator district. The crunching sound my boots make in the snow is a telltale sign of the artic temps that have gripped Minneapolis lately. But my spirits are warmed this morning by the sun and the prospect of an urban hike.

Grain elevators make my day. I enjoy the visual rhythm of their rounded forms jutting into the sky. Silos pregnant with harvest form a ridgeline of old economy stretching from downtown along the Mississippi to nearly the airport.

Suddenly and silently, four military jets flying in formation far overhead appear from the southeast. Their presence reminds us of the world beyond our own, as vapor trails scribe precise paths across the winter sky.

Songs Long Gone

Minneapolis is not shy about claiming Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's lyrical characters, Hiawatha and Minnehaha, the mythic figures portrayed in "The Song of Hiawatha." Minnehaha Park, Minnehaha Creek; Hiawatha, Minnehaha, and Longfellow Avenues all owe their namesakes to a poet describing a place he never visited.

Minnehaha this, Hiawatha that. Hundreds of city businesses have named their enterprises after Minnehaha and Hiawatha. Yet the business connection to the mythology and spirit of the Longfellow's poetry remains hidden. Commercialism has adapted the names of Longfellow's characters in name only. The Songs of Hiawatha are long gone down the river. Walk the Hiawatha Corridor and one sees virtually no commercial signage, artwork, or architecture speaking to the imagery of Hiawatha or Minnehaha. Where's Hiawatha? Where's Minnehaha? The answer is more likely to be found in the natural presence of the land than it is in the signs of the times. Mother Earth is undettered by highways that crawl over her belly, by protestors in trees, or by the rumble of trains.

Minnehaha in a Word

Minnehaha's "laughing waters" flow beneath the Hiawatha Avenue bridge on a course destined for the Mississippi River and the long journey to the sea. Ha! Minnehaha's frozen serene goes unnoticed overhead where drivers of speeding cars rush to and fro. Nearby, a dale flush with golden winter grasses snuggles into a crook of Minnehaha's banks. The roar of distant jets at the airport muffles the sound of laughter floating in the air from children ice skating. Swoosh, skate, laugh. Minnehaha.

Iron Horse

Yesterday's fortune. A sleek, new Hiawatha Light Rail train appears in my camera's viewfinder as I am photographing the 46th Station. It takes me a few moments to connect the image of the oncoming train on a test run with the sound in my ears. OK. I know that sound. It's a train whistle. And the clanging behind me? Of course, that's the railroad crossing warning on 46th street.
The train car driver, sporting sun glasses and a ball cap hat pulled down low over his face is all business as he directs the train into the station, giving me only a slight nod in response to my wave. The car stops. Doors open. "Hey, buddy, can I catch a ride to the airport," is what I should have said. Instead, I stand silent, awestruck like a young boy seeing his first locomotive.

Doors close. The electric car silently slips out of the station.

Hiawatha Rising

Hiawatha. The round sound of the word's four syllables rolls from the lips with a final flick of the tongue. Hiawatha. The word evokes the spirit of the land where Minnehaha Creek spills into the Mississippi River. Hiawatha songs rise with the mist into the Minnesota sky.

Bridge to the Future

The Minneapolis skyline recedes from the rear-view mirror of my Mercury as I ascend the Hiawatha Lake Street Bridge. I like this bridge. Its no-nonsense, concrete construction is function before form. Yet the compound curve of its gentle arch over Lake Street topped off with a series of double-headed street lamps graces an otherwise stark Hiawatha Avenue. The lamps seen from speeding cars at night are a blur of light trails scribing the bridge's form.

Yet my thoughts turn to the landscape ahead as I crest the bridge on this grey Minnesota day. A zone of light industry, commercial, and old grain elevators crowd Hiawatha on the left, while houses in the Corcoran neighborhood peak out from behind an earthen berm on the right. Hiawatha Avenue leads my eye towards the horizon. I am struck by the sight in the distant sky of passenger jets landing and taking off at the Minneapolis Airport. I imagine the people and ideas coming and going with each of these planes. There is a sense of the future in the making.

Trains of Change

Change pulses through Hiawatha Ave like the 900 volts of direct current powering Minneapolis' light rail cars. The potential power of voltage becomes the hope of light rail, which is as much about a city's imagination and a new vision of itself as it is about moving passengers. Accompanying urban renewal flows from negative terminal to positive, from undeveloped to what will be. Trains of change. Never mind the Ohms of resistance, those last-century thinkers with negative terminals corroded by cynicism.

Tumblin' Tumbleweed

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.

Sunlight

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.