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Growing up around Trinidad in the 1990s, I found joy building relationships with other kids in the community. My neighbors became my family. And my mother, who was the neighborhood babysitter, was as much a pillar on our block as Mr. Minor’s corner store.
Every generation came together to cookout. The fire hydrants were open, and kids played kickball in front of our Holbrook Terrace walk-up apartment. These frequent gatherings led to an Easter Monday tradition where my mother took a group of kids from Holbrooke, Trinidad Avenue, and Ivy City to the Smithsonian National Zoo.
We’d walk to the D4 bus stop on the corner of Montello Avenue and Holbrook Terrace, flood onto the bus, and plant ourselves for a journey across town. As a child, I never realized how long the ride was. A bus to Union Station, the Red Line to Woodley Park, and a short walk up Connecticut Avenue was 56 minutes. But it didn’t take much to keep everyone orderly; my mom is well known for her sharp quips and bold facial expressions. One of my younger cousins gave her the nickname of “Fussy, Aunt Jute.”
What makes this tradition even more special is that we were a microcosm of a larger tradition. According to the Smithsonian Institution Archive, visiting the zoo on Easter Mondays became a ritual for Black families dating back to the early 1900s, especially among domestic workers who had the holiday off. Little did my family know, this path was paved long before us.
Author's family and neighborhood friends celebrating her mother’s 70th birthday in Anacostia Park.
In junior high school, we moved to Shaw, which made coordinating a trek from Trinidad to the zoo harder. With friends and family spread across the city, summer became the best time to meet up.
One of our favorite spots for summer birthdays and family reunions was Anacostia Park. I love how it offers a mix of things to do — relax by the river, fish along the bank, fly kites on the grass, and play Michael Jackson or Al Green so loud it could be heard from the Basilica of the National Shrine. I remember the sheer comedy of watching my favorite aunts and uncles yell obscenities at each other during intense Spades games. The park was also filled with the best smells — a medley of grilled corn on the cob, slightly burnt hot dogs, and the stench of catfish rising from the river.
But we weren’t the only ones hip to the park. This tradition required waking up before dawn to secure a prime location — close to the water and mostly shaded. But it was worth it.
Author's daughter attempting to land a butterfly on her finger at the Butterfly Pavilion.
As an adult, I often think about which traditions I’ll continue with my daughter and which we’ll create together. I consider her fascination with nature, especially worms, butterflies, and ants. I think of her curiosity to learn and how the city that raised me could help her grow, too. And I think about how my mother nurtured a sense of exploration in me and my friends.
For our first D.C. tradition, my daughter and I also hop on the bus and train. This time, the Green Line from Shaw-Howard U to Archives-Navy Memorial and a short walk down Constitution Ave.; 26 minutes later, we’re at The Butterfly Pavilion at the National Museum of Natural History.
While the places and frequency of these traditions have changed over the years, the constant has been the friends and family who made it special. And, of course, the best city to explore: D.C.
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