Times Change, and So Have the People in the Park

It is one of the many ironies of this metropolis that the Otis Art Institute of Parsons School of Design, in which so many young designers dream of a more elegant future, stands directly across from a corner of MacArthur Park, core of one of the city’s most deteriorated neighborhoods.

For years Otis/Parsons has tried to save the park, without much success. But they have not given up. Last week they broke ground for a new studio building on the property given them in 1918 by Gen. Harrison Gray Otis, whose statue still stands in the park across the corner.

A few days before the dedication ceremonies I took a walk through the park to see what had become of it. I used to walk past it almost every day on my way home from high school. It was idyllic. The park was clean. People strolled about it in clean clothes. Electric boats putted about. Children played in the children’s section on the north shore.

Today it’s a nightmare. Men and women in obviously slept-in clothes stand about on the southeast corner or sit or lie on the benches. They look lost. Their eyes are glazed. They sit and glare at passers-by in stony silence. There is little conversation. Sometimes they chatter at one another in little fits of anger.

I had been warned that walking through the park was dangerous. I had worn my old shoes (which I always do) and no necktie. No one paid me any attention except for a sullen glance now and then. A woman with a can of pop said “Hello, sir,” but she was just being friendly, not soliciting. Nobody offered to sell me any drugs.

Gen. Douglas MacArthur still stood in his shell facing the lake: rigid, staunch, true. The bowl of Southwestern Pacific Islands at his feet was empty of water. The bronze letters on the islands were long since gone. Oddly, there was no graffiti on the shell or statue.

Under the trees behind the shell a cluster of shabby men tended shopping carts that evidently held their worldly goods. Cooking pans were suspended over fires in ashcans.

It had once been Westlake Park, a name that was geographically apt and pleasant. But in 1942, when William Randolph Hearst was booming MacArthur for President, pressure was put on City Hall and the name was changed.

Around the corner women under umbrellas were selling tortillas, chicken, beef and hot dogs broiled over charcoal. Inside the main entrance a man in a jacket was thumping a guitar. A man beside him, also in a jacket, was thumping a Bible.

I walked round the park and crossed Wilshire to the children’s side. About 25 preschoolers were swinging, sliding and climbing. A few unsavory characters sat on benches watching them. Their mothers didn’t seem to be worried. Walking back along Alvarado Street, I saw two policemen driving along the lake road in an unmarked car. They stopped and got out and walked over to a group of men on the grass. One of the men was flat on his back. One of the cops prodded him lightly with a toe. He failed to react. The cops began searching the lawn.

I walked over to them and said, “What are you looking for?”

“Cocaine,” one of the cops said matter-of-factly. I asked him about the men behind the shell with their shopping carts. “Do they live out of them?” I asked.

“I guess so,” he said. “It’s a shame.”

“I remember when that space used to be filled with old men playing cards,” I said.

“Not anymore,” he said.

“I don’t remember that,” the other cop said almost disbelievingly.

“This used to be a nice place to bring your girl,” I said. “Have a boat ride.”

The first cop shook his head. “Not anymore. You’d get beat up and your girl would get raped.” He shook his head. “It’s a shame.” He added, “Be careful. It’s dangerous.”

I walked across Alvarado and 7th streets to Langer’s Delicatessen for lunch. Langer’s was still clean and classic. It had been untouched by the deterioration all around it. I ordered a tuna melt and a Diet Coke, and the waitress called me “Dearie.”

Some things never change.

But I wondered: What are parks for if not for people who have nowhere else to go?