Having enough, in a gratuitously full space
On a cloudy Wednesday night, I’m heading to a Bushrod Town Hall meeting. We’re newish to the neighborhood—and very new to parenthood—so it’s been a while since I’ve had the energy to feel civically engaged. But while I know there’s a non-zero chance I’ll spend the evening physically recoiling from all of the inevitable earnestness and grandstanding, we’re now raising our child here, in Bushrod. It’s time to start gently entering into the civic conversation about “Bushrod Park, other neighborhood issues, and all things Oakland!” (as promised in the e-vite for this particular Town Hall with Councilmember Zac Unger). And anyway, I haven’t been able to lock into a good reality TV show lately, and the main topic is bound to entertain: whether Bushrod Park, with its million signs explicitly prohibiting all the dogs that one still sees in the park, is also, potentially, a viable official off-leash dog park.
When we first moved to Oakland, we were a two-dog household and so we occasionally found ourselves taking a twenty-minute walk to let our dogs romp around in the grass. Many people do this, despite technically not being allowed to, and this state of affairs has simmered in a variety of Oakland parks for the last few years. About six months ago, the police started cracking down on the scofflaws.
These days, our single, introverted dog is too old and antisocial to care about dog parks, and it’s been a relief—as someone who is always a little bit worried about getting in trouble—to have a dog whose personal politics happen to align with Oakland Municipal Code 6.04.080, “Dogs at Large in Parks” (which states that they generally can’t be). But we do a lap around the park, most days, with our baby and our dog, we’ve watched the recent crackdown and the rebellion play out in real time. We even have a few favorite regulars; a tiny huskie we call “Tiny Huskie” and a cute half-chihuahua, half-pit bull who, we were informed, is called a “chippy.” I’ve generally found the defiance inspiring: there’s something satisfying about watching a group of people collectively decide that a rule doesn’t apply to them.
The stage was set for civic conversation! I convinced my husband to come with me because it could be “something different to do,” and indeed, there is a pleasant buzz in the air as we trail a few other small groups and individuals headed in the same direction. I’m weirdly excited. The church is packed, and I’m hoping the baby provides us an excuse to hover in the back while also not blatantly signaling that we’re firmly on the children’s side of this particular battle. But with my tall husband wearing our very small baby (in an aqua-colored Boba Bliss hybrid wrap carrier), there’s not much mystery about our status. The dog people, having respected the implicit “no dogs in church” rule, don’t have a convenient way to advertise their allegiance.
Councilman Unger welcomes us by telling everyone there’s money in the budget for a fence. I’m delighted to learn that the biggest obstacle I can think of has already been overcome. We all get a map, an unannotated Google Maps aerial view, printed out, and he explains three different areas being considered for a designated dog park, based mostly on plans people have sent him by email. All three would work, in the sense that all three would create a legal, fenced dog park. One option is an “hour-glassed shaped park” between two baseball fields. (This seems fun, but my husband whispers that it would create a liability issue if someone hits a home run, and might signal to our children that we don’t think they can hit home runs). The other two involve sectioning off two underused areas of the park: one along Shattuck, and another behind the recreation center building.
A dozen hands shoot up immediately. One woman insinuates that the inciting incident for the recent crackdown—a report of a child being bitten by a dog—may have been fabricated. But her reference to the “alleged” bite makes people shout in outrage. A beleaguered representative from Animal Services interjects and offers a good deal of evidence that this bite in fact did happen—hospital report, police report, etc.—as well as giving a little impassioned speech about exactly what Animal Services goes through when a child gets bitten.
(I am moved; ACAB, but I guess sometimes someone does need to intervene if a dog bites a child and the dog owner is an asshole?)
After a passionate dog owner speaks up on behalf of all the dog owners—whose assenting murmurs make clear the dog community is present and united by a shared sense of injustice—an equally impassioned parent gives a rebuttal, describing children as simply “slipping and sliding all over dog feces,” adding, gratuitously (and I’m starting to suspect gratuitousness is going to be a theme here, along with poop): “That’s the thing about feces; it is filthy.” This seems to land with half the room; “BULLSHIT,” a man yells, while aggressively chewing on a toothpick and wearing socks with dogs on them poking out of his sandals.
A bunch of people walk out at this point. Someone from the church intervenes to remind everyone to behave and watch their language. We are less than fifteen minutes into this Town Hall, and gratuitousness ping-pongs (pickleballs?) back and forth from there.
A parent reads a passionate written statement about the growing safety issues: “Bushrod is dangerous for children, and that’s just a fact.” He repeats the phrase “just a fact” several more times; each time, the pro-dog crowd revolts a little more. Then someone from their side reports that he visited all five dog parks yesterday on a research mission and found them seriously lacking: two are dysfunctional, one is under the freeway, etc. The “legal alternatives” listed on the threatening warnings laminated and zip-tied to the park fence are therefore deemed unsuitable. Others confirm this, exchanging stories of terrible experiences at every single other dog park in the vicinity.
The crowd seems split as to whether Bushrod is actually being used for its intended purpose. One side insists it’s busy every day with multiple games and practices; the other insists it’s always empty, woefully underutilized. A man confesses that he “used to use the space as a dog park, but doesn’t anymore.” He reminds us that we live in a society that must have rules.
I love civil disobedience, in theory, but get squeamish when people violate reasonable rules. And I’m getting confused about the greater purpose and significance of this particular form of disobedience. As this shockingly combative meeting goes on, it becomes increasingly obvious that just because a baseball field is sometimes empty, that does not, in fact, mean it should naturally become a dog park. The dog park of it all might be the reason the park is often empty: In addition to the extremely serious matter of biting children, dogs are repeatedly accused of digging holes, pooping everywhere, and chewing up irrigation lines, which does seem kind of bad for sports. (“When we hear that a game is going to be at Bushrod, we all groan,” one baseball mom says).
Questions I have never in my life considered start to bubble up: What does our city owe our dogs? Does child recreation always come before dog recreation? Who gets priority when two groups want the same piece of public space? And does any of this actually matter when there is, in fact, a pretty practical solution sitting right there on the table: building a fenced-in dog park?
The “society must have rules” guy tries to draw a parallel to sideshows, that people can be having a great time and still cause harm to the people around them. This does not go over well, and he quickly backs down. A dog owner tells us, vulnerably, that she was not able to have children and only has dog children—and no, they’re not the same. But also they kind of are. “I know you think of us as YOU PEOPLE, with your DOGS,” she says, “and that we think of you as YOU PEOPLE, with your KIDS.”
(Soooo many hands in the air, still. These types of forums could greatly benefit from an enormous, loud timer. Councilman Unger keeps reminding the crowd that we’re trying to find solutions, a sentiment which is applauded and then immediately ignored. And when city officials occasionally pitch in, to address concerns, they also remind us, in a strangely scolding tone, that any solution will take a lot of time, a lot of steps, and a lot of patience. And it’s becoming increasingly unclear what, exactly, the money for the fence is supposed to solve, since apparently some laws will need to be amended, too. They’re showing up to have the civic conversation. But they’re also basically saying: okay, if you really want this silly little thing, let us explain how hard and slow it’s going to be.)
On the pro-dog side, a rescue dog enthusiast really loses me by insisting that any proposed park must accommodate dogs who are scared of train noises, need lots of space, etc: “Not all dogs can just be walked around the neighborhood on a leash,” she says. (I can’t help but think that those dogs…might also not be great at an off-leash dog park?) Every comment generates a new wave of head shakes, nods, scoffs, and walkouts, and somehow the energy stays high: Not much profanity, but plenty of “yeah right” and “not true,” as on and on it goes.
My husband decides he has gotten the drift and leaves with our baby; I grab a recently (dramatically) vacated seat and send regular updates. “Ask them if they’re going to do anything about those ants,” he texts. We’re convinced that there is a massive, endless colony living underneath the park, sending foragers into various nooks and crannies of our home with alarming frequency, and we worry that they’re going to carry our baby off to their queen.
But based on the number of arms still reaching desperately into the air, tonight’s civic agenda will have room for exactly one crisis: dogs in the park. There will be no mention of the ants, Flock cameras, the cars weirdly and consistently speeding very, very fast down our dead-end street next to the park (where children play!) at all hours of the day, or any of the other things negatively affecting our neighborhood, much less the world.
There are some genuine attempts at collective problem-solving. One dog owner says she and others are “willing to fill in other dogs’ holes” and otherwise pitch in to compensate for the less responsible dog owners. She gets a round of applause. Another resident tries to broaden the issue, saying “The whole city is filthy,” and after listing a bunch of dirty parks, tries to have a conversation about the larger problems facing Oakland. But the crowd is not really interested. There is no appetite for any problem that can’t somehow be blamed on dogs, which means there is also no room for the strange, unwieldy trash piles that I’ve seen appear next to Bushrod every day. (Another observation from my daily walks: trash cans are constantly overflowing with weird lottery cards, rotting vegetables, broken electronics, melted ice packs, and an assortment of other mysterious garbage. Where does it all come from?!?)
When an actual small child makes a statement, the crowd calms down (and it makes me sort of want to cry). Once, the child and their family went to the park with their dog and simply didn’t realize a game was happening. After building their courage, saying “ummm” into the microphone a few times, the child timidly proposes a shared usage plan of some sort.
With the exception of that small child, we have not heard from a single person who is able to resist reiterating the issue in very simplistic terms and then telling a long personal story.
This was, to be fair, exactly what I expected. There is even a quick, third-act tone-switch to Israel arms shipments, when someone calls on Councilman Unger to publicly support the Oakland arms embargo; almost everyone cheers, which I find both heartening and confusing. And I’m suddenly trying to draw a new Venn diagram of people who are furious about dogs in a public park, people who are furious about children being endangered by dogs, and people who are furious about Oakland’s complicity in genocide. When Unger gives a non-answer, directing attention to the Port, it briefly seems possible that we might transition into a broader conversation, at least until the next woman ends her speech about loving dogs by saying: “and lastly, President Obama’s dog just passed away.” Everyone goes “awwww” and I genuinely fear someone is about to propose a moment of silence.
The church has made it very clear that this meeting will end promptly, which I appreciate; while I have somehow committed myself to staying until the bitter end, I should really get home and feed my baby. There’s time for one final comment, and at precisely 7:28 PM, someone raises their hand to inform us that Oakland has a public pool crisis.
With that, I’ve had enough. I can’t make myself watch the Councilman politely shut down a woman who desperately wants to discuss chemical burns (legitimately scary), pool cleanliness, and the apparently urgent question of where Oakland residents are supposed to swim. I need to get out of here before someone manages to turn this into a discussion of Oakland’s deplorable lack of dog-friendly swimming areas. And I leave feeling impatient, bogged down by inefficiency, worried about people and their communication choices and emotional well-being. But also, somehow, strangely, warm and fuzzy about my neighborhood being such a neighborhood? Full of conflict and entitlement and garbage and dog poop and pettiness and life.
I come home and brag about feeling civically engaged. My husband, stirring pasta while holding the baby, replies, “You mean cynically engaged.” And he’s not wrong. But we all got out of our houses and ant-infested apartments. We sat in a room together, aired our grievances, and got some free group therapy. And a lot of people probably even left feeling heard. I feel reasonably confident that, within the next five years, around the time my kid starts playing tee-ball, a partial solution will, perhaps, be implemented, and that it will satisfy approximately thirty percent of the people and their dogs and/or children.