De Anza Park, on Speedway near the University of Arizona, has a reputation for drugs, homelessness and violence.
Last summer, the city adopted a plan to clean up the park and make it family-friendly.
But the plan hasn’t brought any change.
I have lived by De Anza for the last six months. During that time, around 200 crimes were reported: from drug possession to robberies, according to the crimereports.com. Though I can see the park from my balcony, I’ve never noticed anything out of the ordinary, and certainly no crime.
Police officer Francisco Magos of the public information unit told me that most crimes were committed in the businesses or property nearby: A nearby "Circle K" was a frequent target. Thieves flee to De Anza and blend in with other visitors. The crimes in the area are “opportunistic,” he said. Police encourage residents to lock their doors and not leave valuable possessions on the seats of the cars.
The contrast between the gloomy news reports on De Anza and the mundane reality intrigued me, so I decided to spend a full day there recently.
De Anza is a grassy 5.44-acres with three sand volleyball courts, small swing area and children’s playground. Its picnic area — three brick and concrete tables with benches — is open to the sun. The grass is dried and trampled down. Cigarette butts, candy wrappers, plastic cups and bottles are everywhere. Shade can be found only under the rare palm and pine trees that frame the park.
It’s Friday. 10:26 a.m.. A two-year-old boy is playing on the playground slide. His ringlets jump up and down as he slides. His family came from Brazil to Tucson on the previous night, as Carlos Barbosa, his father, received a postdoc position in the Astronomy department of the University of Arizona. The joyful game, however, is interrupted by an employee of Tucson Parks and Recreation. He advises the family to go to Oury Park because the place we are now “is not safe” and “there can be needles.” Then the official moves to another family, also new in town, whose children are swinging nearby, and repeats the advice. When the children leave, the park worker drives away.
11:29 a.m. Tina Gomes, who said that she is a 57-year old veteran, gets water from one of the park's two fountains. Her home is under the tree: it consists of a blanket on a flattened cardboard box and a tent so she can “get some privacy.” All her belongings — clothing, shoes, umbrella, wooden cross and the four stuffed animals that substitute for her family — fill in a shopping cart.
“What are the most useful things? A bike and a cart,” Tina says police used to take carts from homeless with “purses, money, personal things every day.”
“Somebody went to the mayor, I think, now the police are not ruling here like they were. They monitor, but don’t take our personal items.”
Gomes says she became homeless after falling to renew her Social Security disability benefits: she said she suffers from PTSD, but as soon as the paperwork is done she will find an apartment. She blames her misery on “white supremacists in the government.”
12:05 p.m. Carla “Shorty” has lunch. She scrubs clean an empty peanut butter jar and licks the plastic spoon. “Shorty” has style: pink vest, pink beanie and big heart-shaped earrings. She says she has a place to go. Her daughter lives in Tucson, but she prefers “freedom” and would rather sleep on the sidewalks than follow her daughter’s rules. She doesn’t clarify what rules, but in this park “rule” usually means “being sober.” After lunch, she takes a nap on her blanket on the lawn. Others nap in the shade.
Those who want to talk gather around the tables: they eat chips and drink beer and soda. It seems to be an ordinary picnic on a sunny afternoon.
2:30 p.m. “I have addiction since a kid,” James “Ghost” said as he smokes a cigarette at the table.
“I have an addiction to heroin and meth," he said, adding, "And pot. But I can regulate it: stop and go, stop and go, not just keep going, going, going. Some people just can’t stop.”
“Ghost” is a 40-year-old man, slim and both pale and sunburnt. He said that being homeless is his choice and that he spent seven out of the last two years in prison for assaults and selling drugs.
He is estranged from family, whom he describes as affluent. “They judge me because I am a drug addict, so I don’t want to follow their rules and stay sober when I don’t want to.”
“Ghost” doesn’t want to give his full name “for protection.”
He also says that he enjoys being respected by his friend and takes life “day by day.” “You have to want to get better, to get on your feet, get a house and a car. It’s a choice you make, not the society.”
“One” Steven of Hoene, as another park regular calls himself, approves everything “Ghost,” says. But unlike “Ghost” "One," who is in his 50s, said that he wants to get better, to meet a woman, start a family.
“One” says the only reason he comes to the park is to be around people: “I need people, you know. And if I don’t have people, I ride around or walk around and ‘send a smoke signals’ if I have to attract the people.”
He said he enjoys de Anza as here he always meets new faces. The only thing that disappoints him is the closed restrooms: “There are a lot of people who are trying to go somewhere. Maybe over this tree or that tree, I don’t know.”
I tell him that according to the city's park restoration plan, restrooms will open after reconstruction in 2028 at a cost of $178,158.
“One” rides away.
3:17 p.m. Three young men sit on the grass and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes in the shadow of the tree. “People come here for obvious reasons: to buy drugs, to sell drugs and talk to people who want to buy drugs,” says Travis “It’s like open market here. The police turned a kinda blind eye here.” Travis is 23. He wears a white T-shirt, blue jeans, a red hoodie. His hair is blond, his cheeks are pink. His face shines with youth. He is beautiful. He has lived on the street for one year: “There is no reason to be filthy.” It’s easy for him to be homeless, he says: people like and respect him, he gets everything he wants easily. He uses meth and heroin.
I think about “Beautiful Boy,” Golden Globe nominated-movie about father and son relationships and methamphetamine addiction. In a movie, Steve Carell’s character tries to understand why his son, who was raised in a happy and loving family, becomes addicted. I look at Travis, he is that beautiful boy, seemingly trouble-free and happy. “Addiction is full-time, it’s overtime,” the other boy, Rene, says. He speaks fast as if words were bullets. Everyone will give up drugs, but only after they reach their limit of suffering, they say, adds Toni, the third person under the tree. Toni is 27 and has a daughter. After his friends are gone, he says that he has signed up for a new rehabilitation program and will try again to give up drugs, for his child. After meeting in a park, he is going to look for an apartment to rent.
5:27 p.m. When a school teacher Paula Meanuhamah comes to the park, people greet her and smile and go towards her. Some even call her “angel.” She comes twice a week to feed the homeless. “We gonna throw food away, why not to use it to feed all these lovely people.” Today she brings pizza and pancakes, hot and individually packed. She goes around the park with her huge green bags, trying not to deprive anyone. “Having traveled to other countries, the world on itself... are very generous people, and they take care of people who need support,” she says. “They have no place to go, so let’s take care of them. They are part of our community. They have jobs, or they had jobs, they have families they are part of, they paid taxes, that’s the least we can do — give them little food, a little dignity, little respect.”
Most of the park visitors leave after “dinner.” “Shorty” wraps her mattress and blanket. Next morning I will see her sleeping on the sidewalk of the 2nd West Street.
9:31 p.m. After the sunset, volleyball courts come to life. Tuesdays and Thursdays play people who are the part of the local league and pay the city for taking care of courts, an amateur volleyball player Nikki Dehli says. On Friday players come to enjoy pick-up, “unscheduled” games. Today there are enough people to take two out of three courts.
“I’ve never had any issues or felt unsafe here. People cheer for us,” Dehli says. “Of course, they keep doing their business, but they still support the community. There is a lot of kindness, I would say for sure.”
9:42 p.m. Julian “Scrappy” has a huge cardboard box on wheels. There is enough space to hide a small elephant or a big sofa inside. “Scrappy” has blankets, mattress and a lot of clothes there. He says he wants to tell his personal story on camera. So he rolls his cardboard box on the lawn, decorates it with a red blanket, set up a chair and covers it with another piece of cloth, puts bed quilt on the ground, and jukebox and a yellow plastic tiger on the quilt. Then he says he needs to change the outfit (he was dressed in black pants and shirt and in pink “Hello Kitty” knitted hat and huge pink glasses). He brings a bag of clothes and chooses carefully: pinstripe black jacket under a big black jacket, red pocket kerchief in the shape of a rose, pink plush top hat. To perfect his look, “Scrappy” finds a mirror, hairbrush and conditioner. After 40 minutes of rituals and preparations he is finally ready, but sleepy, tired and has nothing to say.
The lights turn off. At 10:30 p.m. park “closes.” The police car comes as a sign that it is time for the last park visitors to take their possessions and leave, and look for a place to spend the night on the sidewalks and neighborhood streets. Kori, a young man who left his home in Alabama three years ago as a train hopper and has traveled all over the States, as he says, leaves the last as he sleeps right across the road under the palm trees. “Does the park smell of piss and shit?”, asks Kori. “I smelled only pines,” I say.