The Rose That Grew from Concrete

By Alexis Vann
Treasurer
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I cannot take credit for the title; it is a line from a Tupac poem and eventually the title of one of his albums. Every time I hear the phrase it reminds me of my grandmother, Mrs. Truman, who lived atop of Howard Rd. in Southeast DC. Southeast DC to me growing up was the Mecca. As a suburban girl that visited my grandmother on the weekends and spent most of my summers with her, Southeast DC was where I garnered independence by being sent to the corner store for milk and bread and it is where I learned to nurture something as I grew tomatoes and herbs in my grandma’s backyard garden. In a backyard no bigger than a minute, that garden was everything.

The top of Howard Rd. is where the streets are lined with historic row houses and small patches of yard. It is where I saw my first street fight and watched my uncle chase off a burglar. Juxtaposed, it is also where I picked mint leaves from my grandmother’s backyard garden to put in my tea when I had an upset stomach. My grandmother was full of recipes and homemade remedies; she was full of nature and nurture.

It was not until my twenties or even thirties, I had an “AHA” moment as I heard the term, the rose that grew from concrete, and it made me think of my grandmother. I do not remember what I was going through at the time, but the thought made everything better. I pondered for a moment about Mrs. Truman’s garden and all the things we grew. I thought about the neighbors that stopped by for tomatoes and other vegetables. I thought about how I learned to cook what I grew, and I learned how to cultivate seeds to a bountiful harvest. And then it dawned me as if a lightbulb went off…in the middle of the hood, the ghetto to some, my grandmother had a garden. In a place where it should not have been, my grandmother’s Southeast DC garden was the rose that grew from concrete.