About a decade ago, I lived in Houston’s Third Ward neighborhood, a few blocks away from Emancipation Park. It’s the oldest park in Houston, and the oldest in Texas; during the Jim Crow era, as the Third Ward changed shape, it was the only park open to black city residents. There’ve been renovations to it in recent years—including the addition of a rec center with classrooms, a basketball court, and a cultural center—but it’s one of the few spots in the area that’s retained its autonomy in the midst of Houston’s steadily advancing gentrification. On weekends, I’d bike down Elgin Street, hooking a right toward the park, before the shotgun houses and gas stations phase into town houses and skyscrapers; then I’d eat whatever sandwich I’d packed in my bag on one of the curbs at the park’s edge. It usually wasn’t very busy, but sometimes it was. It was mostly local folks, and mostly black and brown, but sometimes not. People congregated by the pool, or on the baseball field. Families played music and ate sitting on their cars just beside the fields of grass.