The Language of Place
(Source: Unsplash/Nong.)
It’s technically winter, but here in Texas the seasons are unpredictable, following a mysterious schedule and rhythm of their own. With daily temperatures oscillating between 30–75 degrees, we never really know what to expect. But fortunately, we can anchor ourselves by the changing colors of the trees and know that, at the very least, it’s fall even if the trees are competing for attention against the dozens of inflatable Santas and hundreds of Christmas lights popping up around the neighborhood.
I’ve always loved fall the most because of the changing leaf colors, but this year has become the most interesting quasi-fall of all thanks to my husband’s knack for identifying trees by their name and other interesting facts about their bark, soil needs, and proper trimming techniques—the kind of information that usually marches straight to the back of my head and is promptly forgotten. But this year was different. I don’t know why, but during a walk one morning, I found myself snapping a photo of a leaf and sending it to Rob, inquiring by text if we had finally found an elusive maple.
No, I hadn’t, but so began our current hobby of collecting and comparing tree leaves. I’ve learned that sweetgum and maple look quite similar to each other, that there’s a surprising amount of difference between red and live oak, and that the green fuzzy clusters at the tops of trees is actually a fungus that locals call mistletoe even though it’s not actually so. I’ve learned that the space between the points on an oak leaf are called sinuses.
The hobby has become a lesson in observing. Now, as I drive around town or take short walks in our neighborhood, I find myself staring at leaves. The variety is surprising. In addition to the state tree (pecan), Waco has an abundance of at least four types of oak. Also sycamore, sweetgum, bradford pear, hackberry, and slippery elm…just to name a few. Who knew that juniper is an invasive species or that a certain shade of green means that a tree is not getting enough nitrogen from the soil?
In just a few days, learning the trees by their names has changed what I see when I step out the door. Trees no longer fade into a blur of green with splashes of fall color. We’ve even started discussing the various types of grasses and I can almost tell Bermuda from St. Augustine. The environment becomes not just a collection of nameless things like a list in a children’s book: tree, grass, sky. Rather, the environment becomes a rich tapestry inviting me to ponder the hidden story of a place, to ask questions, to wonder.
Something similar can be said for our cities. Part of what sparked my interest in urban design was the book The Death and Life of Great American Cities. I was inspired by Jane Jacobs’ ability to name the built environment, to describe the city in terms of unique building blocks, each helping to sustain life in the city in a unique way (or taking away from life, as in the case of highways). After reading Jacobs, it became nearly impossible to look at a street as just a street, at a corner store as just another bodega, at a park or plaza as just that. Just like the trees I’m learning to call by name, these ordinary “ingredients” of a cityscape took on layers of meaning and intrigue that didn’t exist before.
I don’t live in a bustling metropolis anymore; three years ago, I moved to Waco, Texas, but surprisingly, I come to rely on this art of naming even more so here than I did in New York City. The transition hasn’t been easy, but one thing I’ve always been grateful for is the ability to name what I see and articulate why it frustrates me. For my social life, this hasn’t necessarily been my most magnetic talent, but several friends have expressed that listening to my rants have helped them begin to develop a language of place, too. They can see the city, but now they can also name it.
For anyone who wants to care for their community, being able to properly name what you see is an essential first step. Knowing how to recognize a stroad, a dangerous slip lane, a wasted plot of land in your downtown, or underutilized commercial real estate in your neighborhood might sound boring, but it’s critical to building better places. If we can’t name what we see, how can we understand it, let alone repair it?
Tiffany Owens Reed is the host of The Bottom-Up Revolution podcast. A graduate of The King's College and former journalist, she is a New Yorker at heart, currently living in Texas. In addition to writing for Strong Towns and freelancing as a project manager, she reads, writes, and curates content for Cities Decoded, an educational platform designed to help ordinary people understand cities. Explore free resources here and follow her on Instagram @citiesdecoded.