The United States of Breakheart

First published in the Wakefield Daily Item, September 21, 2021.

We all need to escape sometimes. The pressures of work, the unrelenting news of human conflict and natural disaster in our country and around the world, the inevitable stresses of home and family life exacerbated by the ongoing pandemic – it all adds up, and it pushes us to find some kind of sanctuary, where we can disconnect from all the negative energy and restore ourselves.

Luckily here in Wakefield, we have Breakheart Reservation, over 650 acres of natural beauty, with ancient stands of pine, the still waters of the Upper and Lower Ponds, winding trails, steep hills and jagged outcroppings. All of this is just a few minutes’ drive from my house, and I’ve come to rely on being able to make a quick escape to Breakheart to blow off steam, clear the head, and connect to nature.

The other day, I was there taking a brisk walk with my wife, Diane, and our dogs, Harry and Cali, when, sort of out of the blue, I experienced a deep and genuine sense of well-being. Where had this feeling come from?, I wondered. A Hispanic dad and his three boys had just ridden past on bikes. Shortly ahead of us, the dad had stopped to push his youngest son – clearly new to his two-wheeler – up a fairly steep hill. Then he had run back down to retrieve his own bike and catch up to the boys. As he ran down, he and I made eye contact and he shook his head and smiled. This process was repeated as the family encountered another hill. My wife and I continued to walk behind them, and when the dad stopped to do a third push, we walked his bike ahead so he wouldn’t have to come back for it. He laughed and thanked us.

The man and his boys eventually got going and rode ahead out of sight. But as we progressed on our circuit with the dogs, I noted the people around us: a Black family relaxing near the pond; a big Hispanic group of families and friends gathered in the picnic area for an afternoon of grilling; an older Asian couple walking and conversing in their native tongue; a group of twentysomethings – white, Black, brown – walking in the opposite direction with two dogs of their own; a same-sex couple – two young women – strolling while holding hands.

Part of what I felt was likely nostalgia. I grew up in suburban Maryland between Washington, DC, and Baltimore. The public schools I attended were extremely diverse, probably 20-30 percent Black, with a good number of Asian and East Indian kids mixed in. People in the area also practiced a rich variety of religions. Driving down New Hampshire Avenue in Montgomery County in the 1970s, one would have passed a striking array of churches and temples – Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Eastern Orthodox, Buddhist, you name it. As a kid, this had been my normal. Also, as a young married couple, Diane and I had lived in Manhattan for a few years, another place where everyone expected and even reveled in the wonderful mix of colors and cultures and identities of the resident citizens.

I love living in New England. Life here has so much to offer, with the ocean and the mountains so near at hand, with all the early American history and the cultural riches of Boston. I’ve raised my own kids here and after 27 years – the first four in Boston, the rest here in Wakefield – I still feel the charm and even the magic of this place. I feel it during a breezy stroll along Crane Beach; or in the first, crisp fall morning of breathing steam on a run around Lake Q; or in the Hopper-esque light filtering through the living room shades of our old woodframe house.

The one note of sadness or regret or loss that I feel about living here is that it is not more ethnically, racially, culturally diverse. I miss seeing more people of color, miss living and interacting with people who look different than me and who see the world differently. Of course I’ve raised my kids to be open-minded and curious about people who are different, to go beyond the minimum of treating everyone with respect to actually reach out and connect with people who look and think differently. But experience is the best teacher and there is no substitute for actually living in a world where there are more Black and brown faces, and more divergent perspectives, around you every day.

I realized that Breakheart is much more than a sanctuary, and more than an escape from the cares of the day. As a place where many different kinds of people come and have the chance to connect with others and to be themselves; where they acknowledge and even relish each other’s right to be there; and where they also expect everyone to follow common rules of respect – Breakheart is a kind of country unto itself, or a model of one. Besides the natural beauty of the place, the human diversity and the interaction and the mutual respect combine to create a positive force that attracts people. It’s an energy that makes people want to come and connect to it.

This had been the source of my moment of happiness. It also made me think of a book I edited years ago, Us + Them: Tapping the Positive Power of Difference by Todd Pittinsky. As a social psychologist studying prejudice, Pittinsky had been struck by the fact that approaches to mitigating or improving the issue were limited to mere tolerance of difference. Instead, his research for the book focused on diversity as a positive force, identifying groups, communities, and cultures where people who are different engage with each other because they want to.

This positive force is not just something for me and you to experience – it is something we can create. We need more Breakhearts, everywhere and every day, where everyone can go and be, living and letting live, moving towards difference with curiosity and openness, or at least acknowledging it and respecting it as the natural order of things, as the way things should be.

Breakheart brings us together. It gives us a sense of hope and possibility. We go to Breakheart not just for ourselves but because it’s good for all of us and for our communities. It is our sanctuary, our aspiration, and our responsibility. It is our country.