The tulips in Albany’s Washington Park fanned out like waves, their bright colors made more vibrant this year by a cloudless Mother’s Day Sunday. It was time for our annual Tulip Fest. The rays of the sun fell extravagantly on the thousands of petals which were in various stages of budding and opening. The festival, which for as long as I can remember is nearly always drenched in rain, was in its own full bloom. We walked two miles to the park from our home that afternoon. Dry, cool air was abundant after two days of unceasing rain that swelled the creek banks and flooded the region. Entering the park and crossing the bridge to the lake house and the music stage, I felt welcomed and strangely comforted by the flowers. I imagined them waving and calling to us from a distance as the wind moved them, “Come in, come in! We’ve waited for you, and we couldn’t care less that you’re here. Enjoy the day!”
Winter had recently ended, and for the past few weeks we had dodged the warming rain that followed the miserably persistent cold, wind, clouds and precipitation. Hundreds of people were happily venturing down the streets to walk through the park. We converged with them on the park grounds and strolled with an easy gait along the pathways that bordered the tulip beds. Nearby, a performer tuned up with her band, while festival goers drowsily lounged in the sun, their ears half attuned to her sweet voice that gently threatened to carry them into music’s magical world. We sat down on the grassy seats of the lake house amphitheater, to escape for precious moments the world’s ugliness by remembering that the beauty found in sight and sound still exists.
Nearby, the aromas of the funnel cakes and sausage brats wafted all over the park, competing for our attention with the music, the heat, the flowers and the merchant stalls offering their many wares. Turning aside from the food, flowers and fun, I watched with quiet wonder the people - like and unlike us - who had come to the festival: an immense variety of human beings with so many colors of skin, draped in the most varied displays of dress from throughout the globe. Since Albany is home to scores of immigrant communities, none of this should have surprised me. However, I live in a very small pocket of the city, and I serve an even smaller segment of its population. Largely stuck with preoccupations on my own tiny planet, I’m not always plugged in to how many different people, faiths and cultures live here. Watching everyone relaxing and socializing in their many languages, colors and clothes deepened my awareness and brought me profound pleasure.
When we later sauntered through the merchant stalls, I stepped into a tie dye artist’s booth to marvel at the swirling color patterns she had created on the tee shirts she was selling. I love wearing tie dye tee shirts, tributes to the hippie adolescence I never had. I bought two long sleeves with intricate, multicolor chakra columns on them that are so vivid, it’s as if a rainbow were singing out from the fabric.
Near the end of our stay, I climbed a small hill overlooking Tulip Fest. I thought about the riot of colors all around Washington Park on that day, how they could so beautifully blend and remain distinct on the flora, people and handiwork filling the festival grounds. I felt genuine pride in my city of Albany, a place that many New Yorkers joke about derisively as they pass us along the Thruway on their way home to the “real” cities.
Albany is not John Winthrop’s ideal city set upon a hill. It encompasses neighborhoods next door to each other that are balkanized by sharp economic and racial disparities. We also aren’t immune to the political diseases currently being inflicted upon the nation. I personally know of at least one instance where a young, undocumented immigrant was illegally arrested in Washington Park. And although I’m truly grateful to our governor and legislature for providing us with badly needed revitalization support, for decades our city has been treated more like the State’s coatrack than its capital. All these and many other problems make us just as real as any other urban area. Yet our tiny upstate sliver of land is also quite real in another way. It offers a many-hued model to New Yorkers and Americans alike of what a city, a state and a nation should aspire to be: a celebration of community, colorful contrasts, and creativity; a gathering blessed by diversity where we make better lives for ourselves and for the thousands who seek to join us.
Dan Ornstein is the rabbi of Congregation Ohav Shalom and a writer living in Albany, NY. Check out his writings at danornstein.com
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