On Graffiti

On Graffiti

It was June 21st last year, and we were on our way to my graduation party in New York. In four days my life would forever change; I was entering basic cadet training, and leaving everything I knew behind in New Jersey.
As we drove down the Turnpike, the word SCAR flashed before my eyes. It was spray painted on a wall and must have been at least ten feet wide and five feet tall. It reminded me of the summer of 2001, when I was in Philadelphia for my uncle Mel’s wedding. He is one of ten brothers and sisters, and the whole family came out to the east coast to celebrate. It was the first time I had interacted with some of my cousins since the early nineties. One of my cousins I spent a lot of time with was Richie. He was 22 at the time; that’s 11 years older than me, and he was working at a Whole Foods in Philadelphia. Even though he dropped out of art school, he was still thankful that he had a job. We were hanging out one night, and I finally decided to ask him about the black notebook he carried around everywhere. Without a word, he took out his notebook and set it on my lap. “Look,” he said, and opened the cover as if it was Pandora’s Box.
I stepped into a new world as soon as the cover turned. Colorful splashes exploded across each page: letters were bleeding and burning, but it was a creative type of destruction. Although every distorted block letter had arrows shooting out in crazy directions, every line was deliberate and contributed to the chemistry that was on the page.
“What is this?” I asked, and Richie explained what was going on. “It’s graffiti,” he said. “Sometimes you pick a name, but most of the time it’s given to you. So you take this name, and you try to go as far as you can with it: write it everywhere you go - perfect your style. Writing your name is like writing a signature. Actually, it is your signature.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. It didn’t matter; it was like hearing war stories from an old veteran. He continued, “See, in tags, it’s just writing your name. I write STOOP; it used to be STOOPID but I think it was too long with the I and D. Over there, pieces like that are called throw-ups. Throw-ups usually look like bubble letters. They’re called throw-ups because they’re quick to do and are bigger than tags.” He turned a page. “Now these right here… these are called burners. These are the huge murals on sides of buildings, the pieces that stretch over the sides of whole trains. These make a writer. They get you respect, they get you fame… hell, they give meaning to your name.” I thought about everything he just said and continued flipping through the pages that were covered in scribbles, rap verses and stickers from concerts.

We exited the Turnpike and we were about 10 minutes from Hoboken. I sat up attentively as we entered a familiar tunnel. This was my favorite part about our trips to New York: the ride to Hoboken. This tunnel was a hall of fame for graffiti writers. Only the best did their work here, and I understood why. As much as graffiti is about the visual style, it’s also about the adventure: the cop chases, the exhilaration of executing a secret mission, and most importantly the freedom. Who would dare spend their time in a high traffic, highly visible place doing something illegal – no matter how long it would take?

Whether I could help it or not, I eventually became similar to Richie in more ways than one. He was always one of the more artistic members of the family, playing rhythm guitar in a budding indie-rock band. He loved hip-hop, and I did too, immersing myself in its culture in every aspect. I found a passion in rapping and dancing, so naturally, I started to write graffiti to complement the other forms of expression that I became obsessed with. Sure enough, I could really do the headspins and windmills that I was rapping about, and now my written graffiti was dripping the same swagger and confidence I had on the microphone and dance floor.
One particular night, I was out on a mission eager to see my new tag and taste the thrill of writing graffiti. Me and my friend Bryan took the train up to Hoboken and roamed around the quiet city. It was the ideal time to do anything illegal: too early for the next day, but far too late into the current night. We walked all along the square-mile city, traced the waterfront of the Hudson River and did reconnaissance work. The night was still and you could only hear the passing trains and the muffled commotion of busy bars. Bryan and I went building to building spray-painting our names onto the walls. He wrote BLAST, and I wrote GSTR. We didn’t leave until every wall we touched was a bleeding palimpsest; we would murder and manifest with a few quick hand strokes that were actions more instinctual than conscious. We didn’t think. There’s nothing to think about when writing your name on a wall. Before hopping on the train to go back home, we stopped in the St. Mary’s hospital bathroom. This was where I would do my last tag for the night. I took out my On-The-Run brand jumbo flowpen. The marker was thick in my hand and felt like a small flashlight. I scribbled GSTR on the ceiling. Thick black ink dripped down onto my face and all over my hands, but for some reason I stood there and stared at the letters: GSTR.

There’s a unique sense of satisfaction in writing graffiti. On one hand, the execution and journey in writing graffiti is only half of the experience – whether it is legal or illegal. On the other hand, seeing a piece of graffiti is a statement in itself, and only until you’re able to appreciate that statement can you honestly and fully experience a piece of graffiti. Every time a name is read, a story is told. The story is about what a person would be willing to do to make a simple declaration: I was here. It is as much of an expression as it is of a personal mission; it’s a validation of living.

We finally arrived in Hoboken and parked in the St. Mary’s hospital parking garage. We got free parking here because my mom was a nurse at this hospital. St. Mary’s was always our checkpoint; we would stop here, use the bathroom then begin the 6 block walk to the PATH train station that would take us from New Jersey to New York underneath the Hudson River. The trains run every two minutes and we were right on time to make my graduation party.
I didn’t really have to use the bathroom, but I went anyways. Looking up at the ceiling, I saw the faint outline of the tag that I wrote years before. A thin layer of white paint covered it, but it was still visible. The tag was juvenile and unrefined, just like my early adolescent years. The tag back at me and as I was leaving for my party, the letters reminded me what they stood for: God Save The Ronin. I smiled, and enjoyed the rest of my day, hoping that eventually I would be able to leave my mark in some way at the Air Force Academy.