“There was a wall. It did not look important. It was built of uncut rocks roughly mortared. An adult could look right over it, and even a child could climb it.”  -The Dispossessed, Ursula K. LeGuin

We make assumptions. For example, as a writer, I make assumptions about my audience, about you. One of those assumptions is that you read, most of you widely, and many of you deeply. Since this blog is attached to a literary journal, it is very possible that some of you write. At the same time, I could be completely wrong. That is the nature of assumption after all.

Last week, my wife and I were driving through a small town in the Utah desert. The evening was approaching and I was hungry. The next town was probably an hour off. The problem was that we only passed two restaurants on the highway, China Star and Pizzaria. Take a moment to look at the pictures and you might make some assumptions of your own.

Chinese, American, Mexican Drive-In…

And Italian-American Mexican Food, which happens to include Freezies and Chili Dogs.

I’m a food snob. I made assumptions. I did not stop.

When we got to the next town, there were many familiar eating establishments: Subway, Arby’s, McDonald’s. But after waiting so long to eat, I wasn’t going to eat fast food. I wanted to get out of the car, sit down and enjoy a nice meal. So we did the only thing I could think of, which was to ask a local where to eat. The recommendation we were given was an Italian restaurant called Red Gravy.

When we went inside, I couldn’t help but notice that the vibe of the restaurant wasn’t quite Italian. The décor was eclectic, as though someone’s grandma had taken all of her knickknacks and put them into a barn she decided to convert into a restaurant.

The entire back wall of the dining area was a chalkboard with an excellent drawing that I couldn’t help but photograph. It reminded me of New Orleans where I once lived, or what I imagine Venice might look like.

Then the food came, probably the second- or third-best Italian food I’ve ever had — which is saying something. Our waiter was professional and efficient. Overall, it was an enjoyable experience, perhaps made even more so by being unexpected.

But this post isn’t a travelogue of a trip into the desert. The point of all this rambling is the places.

The places I mentioned allowed you to make judgments. Even with limited details, my wife and I made assumptions. The roadside diners and the Italian eatery are the setting of the story; they allowed immersion in the tale. They don’t just give the story a place to happen. They give it flavor. And, in cases like this one, if it weren’t for the places, there wouldn’t be a story at all.

Reggie Carlisle finished his BA in Creative Writing at Weber State University in 2014. His first published story was in the Fall 2013 Mixitini Matrix. He currently resides in Utah with his wife and five daughters.

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I didn’t—because I teach at a private preschool.

That morning I spent time trying to find the right picture of Martin Luther King Jr. for the kids to color. I was looking for something that portrayed him well, and that might occupy a four-year-old for ten to fifteen minutes. The fact that I’m trained in art also complicated the process, I’m sure.

After finding that glorious page, I drove relatively traffic-free streets. I didn’t have to slow in the normal places for school zones. The weather was nice, with no trouble on the horizon.

After the kids colored the picture, I taught them about Martin Luther King, a man I consider to be one of the great American heroes. I wanted the children to understand why he has a day in his honor. I wanted them to understand King’s message and why that message is so important, but I realized they are only four.

My dilemma was how to bring it down to their level. I did my best by reducing his message to three basic points.

First, be nice to people who look different than you.

Second, be nice to people who are different than you.

Third, be nice to people who have different opinions than you.

This last one took some explaining, as children at this age don’t really know what an opinion is. I had to wing an exercise to explain opinions, and how they related to Dr. King’s message.

I asked how many of them liked broccoli. (Some of them actually did.)

I asked those who did if it was okay for them to say how delicious broccoli is. (Of course it is.)

I asked those who didn’t if it was okay for them to say how yucky broccoli is. (This is okay too.)

I asked them if we could still be nice to one another, and be friends, even if we had different opinions about broccoli.

The interesting thing about this exercise is that four-year-olds know the right answer to these questions. I didn’t have to prompt them with answers. I don’t feel the questions are steering them any sort of way. They simply knew what was right.

Dr. King said, “The time is always right to do what is right.” If you haven’t learned to be nice to everyone, that you need to accept people as they are, if you still need a lesson in common decency, I ask that you listen to these children. Sometimes the greatest answers come out of the mouths of babes.

One of the kids asked me if Martin King was still alive. I told the class that he was killed. The children had various responses, but the one that stood out to me was: “They killed him because they didn’t listen when he told them to be nice.” He’s right.

One of the things we didn’t discuss in this class was what “nice” means, mostly because the children in my classes have a basic and pure understanding of being nice. For those of us who have outgrown the childish definition of nice, let me clarify: being nice doesn’t mean putting on a smile and tolerating someone. It is not merely being civil. Nice, the way the children understand it, is being good to each other, truly treating people the way they deserve to be treated.

So I’m putting it out there, please be nice to each other. The world needs more nice.

Reggie Carlisle finished his BA in Creative Writing at Weber State University in 2014. His first published story was in the Fall 2013 Mixitini Matrix. He recently published poetry in the Clockwork Kiru Anthology. He resides in Utah with his wife and five daughters.

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For me, this was one of the highlights of our trip. Not only was it a chance for me to show my children a piece of American art history, I also got a chance to watch others enjoying the artwork. Like the biggest ball of twine, or Austin’s Cathedral of Junk, it has a certain mystique, an allure. Unlike cordoned sculptures in climate-controlled museums, installations such as these invite us to experience them fully by walking through and around them, climbing on them, contributing to them.

As we approached this automotive Stonehenge, it felt as though my family was completing a pilgrimage. My childhood was filled with fascination for roadside attractions, and here I was, in a muddy field, staring at the actual cars. My daughters looked at me, asking, “Is this it?” What they really meant was, “Did we come all this way just to see cars with their butts in the air?” But we had. I touched the cars, reverent, waiting my turn to add to the inches-thick paint jobs. My contribution: the red smiley at the top of the page. Nearby, a mother photographed her daughter in ankle-deep muddy water, holding her cowgirl boots. Another family laughed as they slowly turned one side of a car Smurf blue.

The interaction is one of the most important features of public art. It is also what sometimes leads to it being misunderstood or undervalued. Too often, we limit our understanding of “art” to those forbidding and forbidden pieces in galleries and museums. But public art is arguably just as important.

Public art, simply put, is art displayed in public, for the public. This includes statues and monuments, large-scale sculptures in parks and city squares, as well as roadside attractions. No matter the form, there are a couple of factors common to most public art.

Due to the large scale, many public art installations are relatively permanent, so the location often provides context clues to the content of the artwork. The people who live and work nearby also provide context. Public art can be a way for the artist to speak to or about the people in the area.

To me, the most impressive thing about public art is its ability to bring people together. One example of this is the Cloud Gate in Chicago. Known by locals as “the Bean,” this mirrored sculpture sits in the middle of AT&T Plaza at Millennium Park. People come to this artwork to see distorted images of themselves as they walk under or around the massive metallic legume. But they also come for photos, to eat lunch, or just to take a break from their busy lives. This artwork has become a gathering place.

If we let it, public art can draw us in. It can inspire play. And it can bring us closer to each other.

Reggie Carlisle finished his BA in Creative Writing at Weber State University in 2014. His first published story was in the Fall 2013 Mixitini Matrix. He currently resides in Utah with his wife and five daughters.

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