There is nothing attractive about gang graffiti. It’s careless, sloppy, angular, gross, and mean-spirited. I almost bit my sister’s head off when she tried to defend urban graffiti-which is not what I’m talking about. I’m not referring to beautiful, bubbly letters filled in with gorgeous colors and witty characters. And I know that often graffiti is immediately assumed to be gang related when it’s not, (a point my sister was trying to make). I’m not talking about railway art, murals done in alleyways, or rouge graf artists scouring the urban landscape with stencils. No…I’m talking about idiots coming into my neighborhood from a rival gang, crossing out existing tags and scrawling their own on top as a form of intimidation and take-over. They tag fences, sidewalks, and actual houses. If you have a fence right now you’re in big trouble…at least in my hood.

There’s a retaining wall holding up a sloppy rental house opposite of the corner of my street. It’s been hit three times. It took a long time to get covered the first time. The second time the writing was so big and profane it was covered promptly but poorly (white spray paint was used to cover the letters which remained visible despite the attempt). A week ago a nasty black tag covered the wall from head to tow. It remained there, a shocking ugly sign of the recent deterioration of our neighborhood (’Highest rate of graffiti in 10 years,’ according to the cop at our block watch meeting). Pulling out of my alleyway in the morning, that tag ruined my day.

On Saturday, we participated in the Block Watch clean up. It turned out to be a poorly attended neighborhood clean-up sponsored by the city. I immediately snagged the little red wagon containing a drum of paint and rollers. While Josh struck out alone with a garbage bag and tongs I made it my mission to stamp out gang graffiti. I enlisted the help from the only neighbors I’m on regular speaking terms with. ‘J’ and her husband, ‘K’, knocked on the rental property’s door with their two-year old in tow (nothing neutralizes a situation then a toddler). The woman wouldn’t even answer her door, instead she spoke to us through a screen window. “You can paint over it but they’ll just come back,” she said uncertainly. My neighbors and I attacked the retaining wall with our rollers and neutral gray paint. It was incredibly satisfying and fast.

While we were painting an old woman came out of her house and approached us. She was wearing a robe and slippers. “What are you doing?” she asked curiously. J explained that we were part of a neighborhood clean-up. The woman had brought tiny bottles of water and an orange for the toddler. This simple gesture completely melted my heart. I was so overcome I couldn’t even pause from my painting to properly introduce myself to this woman. This act of kindness carried me throughout the day when we took our red wagon down to Rainier and painted out random tags. People stared at us from dilapidated businesses, car repair places, and the beauty salon. I felt like: Watch out! Here comes Whitey with her “stamp out graffiti” mission! Don’t get in the way of my oppressive paint roller.

We passed a ravine where two of our neighbors were hauling out junk: mattresses, car batteries, tires, it was disgusting. The ravine backs up into their property and the woman mentioned they’d actually found a dwelling down there. “Someone has a pretty nice set up with couches, a mattress, and furniture.” I learned that this space has recently been declared a wet land–which makes building difficult on this property. The woman said she wants it to remain a green space, a park that could be cared for by the city, instead of condos that would bump up into her backyard. I was torn. On one hand we need more green space in the city, but on the other hand we need viable development in our neighborhood. This space is two blocks away from the water and would make gorgeous property with water views. What to do? “I’ve watched trucks back into this ravine and dump garbage, I’ve gotten their license plate numbers and took pictures…the city did nothing.” These stories are all too common. It also fills me with despair and a desire to give the finger to Seattle.

I dragged the red wagon up the hill, dropped off my neighbors, and sat on the front porch of the Presbyterian church that holds services in Tongan. I drank one of the tiny bottles of water given to me by the woman in slippers and chatted with the organizer of the day. “Keep the paint,” she said after learning about my graffiti crusade.