At Park's Corner, a Community Apart
By Max Linsky
EDITOR'S NOTE: Every person in this story, both older and younger than 18, has been identified only by first name. At some points, individuals have been identified by nicknames. The individuals requested that their last names not be used, and in many cases, refused to give them, for fear of repercussions from law enforcement or family members.
"Our f---ing park got invaded!"
Half-Life, a 15-year-old who has been living on St. Petersburg's streets for the last three months, is striding toward the large tree that anchors "their park." They are a diverse group of kids who choose to spend their Friday and Saturday nights somewhere other than at BayWalk. And the "park" is a small tract of grass no more than 200 square feet, bordered by sidewalk on two sides, hedges on one, and the Museum of Fine Arts on the other-an insulated spot that they keep very much their own.
But the borders don't stop at the sidewalk. The kids divide themselves into groups by the bands they listen to. And they are divided by whether they sleep under a parent's roof-or in the park.
Most people taking a weekend stroll down Second Avenue North will notice them as they approach First Street North. They will see the bright orange mohawks and the tight plaid pants. They'll see the leather and the denim. They'll see the big black boots.
And then they will probably keep walking. Quickly.
But on the Fourth of July, as thousands of people descended upon the downtown area to get a look at the fireworks, the tree, with its welcoming low arms, was simply too inviting.
That night their park was invaded by little kids wearing Velcro shoes and fathers playing catch with their sons. And that night most of the tree congregation stayed home, leaving Half-Life and a few others to mingle with the incoming crowds.
But on a normal Saturday night there would be dozens more gathered around the tree, and the pedestrians would keep walking.
* * *
They start to arrive around 7 p.m., coming in groups of two and three or by themselves. Though from a distance the group looks homogenous, from up close you can see the distinctions by which they classify themselves.
Or at least you can hear them.
"You've got skaters, metal-heads, street punks, psycho-billies, goths, hard-cores, emos, rappers," says Eric, 15, as he bounces from one foot to another trying to explain how many different kinds of people gather around the tree. Eric wears his bright orange mohawk off center, trying to add an even more distinct flair to an already eye-catching hairdo. He's got a self-designed T-shirt that reads "RIOT-DON'T DIET" under a black leather jacket, which he wears in defiance of the summer heat. And his plaid pants, skin tight, are covered in the patches of his favorite bands.
For the kids at the tree, many of whom go only by nicknames, the bands you listen to are the strictest group credentials. Eric, who listens to a mix of metal and swing called psycho-billy, wears patches from the underground bands The Misfits, Tiger Army, and The Horror Pops.
The street punks, as Eric refers to them, don't look all that different from him. But the music they listen to is "harder." Instead of The Misfits, their patches lend allegiance to bands such as Aus Rotten and Toxic Narcotics.
Even if it means little to you, it means a lot to them. It's a whole new category.
Most of the kids have trouble turning the classifications on themselves. "You can put me in whatever box you want," says Rosie, who is 16 and still lives with her parents. "But I'm not a goth and I'm not a punk. I'm just a person."
Having left the Saturday night group, and the lingering police, behind, Eric sits on the beach with his girlfriend, Tara. They share the small bottle of gin that Eric paid an older woman to buy for them that afternoon.
"I'd say most of us are from middle class families," Tara says of the kids at the tree who still live with their parents. She will spend the Fourth with her family, watching the fireworks from their boat, after going to a barbecue at Eric's house.
Eric and Tara, both still in school, say they are planning to go to college when they graduate. And they say their parents don't mind them coming to the tree, as long as there's no trouble.
Not everyone at the tree on Saturday night will go home.
Though the patches help break the kids into subsets, there are two distinctions that you won't find sewn on anyone.
Homeless and not homeless.
* * *
Eric, who lives with his parents and only buys his clothes at thrift stores, says that while there is a closer bond among the "squatters," the entire group gets along. "[The squatters] don't have resentment towards us," he says.
But for Mike, who has lived on the street for five years, the antagonism is almost palpable. "If something happens with the cops," he says, "they can run home and tell mommy and daddy. Those kids aren't punk. An $80 pair of pants isn't punk."
Mike, 21, dresses exactly like Eric. Black boots, plaid pants and a jean jacket. But while Eric only has the whispers of a goatee on his chin, Mike has a long, unkempt beard.
They may dress the same, but their lives are completely different.
On the Fourth, Eric watches the fireworks from his mother's downtown office. And Mike sits down the street from BayWalk making flowers out of palm reeds, which he tries to sell to tourists.
Sitting with him is Liz, 18, who has been homeless since April. She and her friends hang out at the tree, in spite of the way she thinks the non-squatters treat it.
"This is our home," she says, running her hand over the bandana that keeps her naturally red dreadlocks in place. "But they can come here, f--- it up, and then go back [to their parents'] home."
Rot, 20, is a California native who has been squatting in St. Petersburg since he was 17. Sitting off on the corner of a stair, shirtless and wearing a kilt, Rot directly addresses the root of the squatters' resentment.
"They have parents at home who care about them, and then they come down here and act like they got it rough," he says.
As the crowd disperses from the fireworks show, Rot looks down at his black boots, on which he has spray-painted "A.C.A.B." That stands for "All Cops Are Bastards" he says.
That is one sentiment that unifies almost everyone at the tree.
* * *
"They're always out here on the weekends," says Mac, a 21-year-old squatter who is missing a front tooth.
What the police are watching for isn't hard to miss. Most of the kids who hang out at the tree smoke cigarettes, which is illegal for anyone under 18. And many of them drink, though some leave the tree to do so. If they do stay, they tend to drink out of plastic bottles.
"We worry about everything," says Officer Niles. His unit, the downtown deployment team, covers the historically troublesome downtown area.
"Their park" is often infiltrated by undercover police officers, say the kids at the tree, a charge that Officer Niles doesn't dispute.
"I was smoking a cigarette over on that bench," says 15-year-old Half-Life, pointing across the street. "And then all of a sudden, this bum jumped out of the bush and gave me a ticket."
The other major concern, says Office Teddy Williams, is assault. According to both the kids and the police, fights break out at the tree nearly every weekend night.
With so many factions meeting there, Williams says, there are bound to be some fights.
But if the kids had it their way, their spot would be left alone by the police as completely as it is by the tourists.
If the kids had it their way, "their park" would never be invaded.
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