I followed him close behind outside of the building, my luggage no longer with me as a shield, presenting me as a newcomer. I watched the people on the street come and go from the store fronts. The population was a mixture: young white couples holding hands, mom's pushing small strollers with sleeping babies inside, hipsters oblivious with headphones smoking cigarettes, groups of African American young men at the corners sitting on stoops, bouncing basketballs, older locals, weary and sweaty. No one was walking as fast as I remembered they had when I visited Manhattan.
Winding our way through the different blocks dotted with bodegas, salons, coffee shops and dry cleaners, I realized each person I passed had no idea I wasn't from here, and for the most part didn't care. He showed me the Dominican grocery store behind our building and VEGGIES, his favorite juice place, along with a couple other places, trying to localize me in a mere twenty minutes. To be honest, after returning to the apartment I couldn't shake my feelings of discomfort. Perhaps it's how anyone would feel in a completely foreign place, everything unfamiliar, every face a stranger. What have I gotten myself into? Suburban North County San Diego is a little different than Central Brooklyn. I asked myself, was this the change I had been searching for? Do I belong here? Can I blend in? Is it safe?
He told me when we returned to the apartment after the mini tour, "When you're walking home late at night, like pretty late, just act tough. Like you know where you're going." His eyes didn't look very serious, but his words sounded so.
"Ok. I will. I mean, I know where I live. Well, now I do. But come on, do I look very tough?" I already knew the answer to that question.
He laughed and explained, "You're fine. This neighborhood is rad. But a couple of years ago, some drunk homeless guy chased me home when I was out pretty late. Other than that, everything's been chill." A great introduction to the area, indeed.
A couple of weeks into my visit I got dinner with an old friend of my brothers at a restaurant in Fort Greene. When his girlfriend arrived to join us, the conversation turned to my apartment and the surrounding area and how I felt about it. "So how have you been adjusting to your neighborhood? A little different eh?", he asked me after a couple of beers and a dozen wings in a silver pale had come and gone from the table. Not wanting to sound like an ignorant jerk and with genuine sincerity I responded,
"I like it. Yeah, it's a little different from where I'm from. But it's really interesting for me being in an area with so much diversity and activity. I like my block. I haven't explored too much but am looking forward to it."
His girlfriend put down her glass of wine on the dark wooden table and added with a smirk, "A year ago, I would not have walked down Franklin at night. But as soon as I saw an oyster bar open on your corner, I knew the neighborhood had changed."
* * *
It's a common sentiment in Crown Heights, and especially the area where I'm located around Franklin Avenue north of Eastern Parkway that the neighborhood is changing, has been changing for a while, and is in danger of changing more than people imagined it could. Along with many other areas in Brooklyn, gentrification has been both a blessing and a curse. Welcoming and affordable to those new and eager to live in close vicinity to Manhattan, yet alienating and indifferent to others. In a sense, pricing out those who've resided here for decades. Even liberal hipsters (and I'm not one to talk but here I am) who thrive on the notion of living in "real" Brooklyn, being authentic and making it, can't ignore the fact that they inherently bring a change to the very essence and history of the neighborhood. It may well be a positive change: more police on patrol, more variety of food and shops, more comfort, but it's still change. A lot of change, in a short period of time.
I often wonder about how people who've lived here their whole lives feel about those who move in, the challenges it presents to them to keep up and the ultimate consequences of what happens if they don't. 23 years ago, Crown Heights was most famous for its violent drug-related and religious-centric crime than for its reasonable rents and trendy food.
It's very easy to imagine the already landmarked historic stretch of Eastern Parkway with it's numerous trees providing amble shade and color, and the towering pre-war apartment buildings and welcoming blue and green awnings as a mini 5th avenue in a few short years. On the front of many buildings you see engravings announcing the buildings importance: "The Theodore Roosevelt", "The Abraham Lincoln", "The Martinique". These apartments are ripe for skyrocketing rents. The Brooklyn Museum, Brooklyn Public Library, and Prospect Park are across the street. So much is at the communities finger tips, and much of New York is starting to take notice.
Many people still associate the neighborhood with the riots that occurred in 1991 between the West Indian and Hasidic communities. Both groups still dominate the population today. According to the recent census from 2010, the demographics of the neighborhood are 74.7% Black, 19.1% White, 4.2% Hispanic, and 2% Asian and other. And it is quite remarkable to walk down one block and see the heavy black coats, long, curly sideburns, and black shtreimels (the felt top hats) of the hasidic men, to then turn the corner and see the kaleidoscope of colors on the garments of the West Indian men and women, their hair piled up high on top of their heads. The riots were a long time ago, and as the years have progressed, and violence has declined, the mixture of ornate brownstones and
abandoned industrial buildings have been renovated and restored, the appeal of Crown Heights now very much apparent to anyone who visits.
* * *
My experience in the neighborhood has definitely shifted from the initial discomfort. I genuinely love the area I've found myself in, and now recognize how fortunate and unique this little corner of Brooklyn is, because I'm quite certain when I return I won't be able to be afford it. For one thing the nearness of the subway, and the specific lines that run are fantastic and really don't get much better, especially in Brooklyn. After a while you discover which trains run best and most often. At the corner of Eastern Parkway and Franklin Avenue, there's a train station where the 2, 3, 4, and 5 lines run. These lines run directly into Manhattan, and for the most part are reliable. Night and day, morning or afternoon, there is almost always a train coming into Brooklyn or toward Manhattan. Sure, you have a ways to travel (about 40 minutes to Times Square), but it's worth it because it gets you there, and that's the whole point.
I mentioned the countless coffee shops before but let me shortly describe my experience with each. There are
four that I am familiar with, and so many others, and while they all do
relatively the same business, each is very different. The Pulp & the Bean
right before you jump on the subway at the corner of Eastern Parkway always
advertises their New Orleans style iced coffee on a chalk board leaning out
front. I’m not quite sure I know the difference between New Orleans and New
York iced coffee, but I do know that if you want a bagel, you get it there. The
Pulp & the Bean is about convenience. If you forgot about breakfast you can rush in and grab your stuff quick, and literally step outside and you are down
the stairs headed for the train.
Crosby, on the other hand, is not convenient.
You can hardly find it on a map. Two blocks up from my apartment, not on the main stretch of Franklin
Avenue, it is the hardest to find and in the strangest area, while
also being the most aesthetically pleasing and delicious. The walls are white,
and the space gets a tremendous amount of natural light, so it feels very airy
and open, even in a quite confined space. I always notice the same people there,
the same old man reading the Times in the corner, the same barista wearing her
lovely brown hat behind the counter. I assume the way they stay in business is
once you find the place, you tend to return again and again. And the coffee
there is without equal, rich and bitter iced coffees, creamy and smooth lattes.
The best part about Crosby is that I got a drink and a pastry there for $5 the
other day, the first time in New York where I’ve spent only $5 on coffee and a
treat, which is ridiculous I’m well aware.
I had heard that Little Zelda, another coffee shop, was the best in the
neighborhood. Quickly I learned that best and most popular aren’t the same
thing. It is indeed very popular, and that is great, and it has a fabulous name,
but I’m not too interested in tripping over the constant stream of hipsters
standing and sitting on one another in the closet-sized space for an overpriced
cappuccino. I went there only once, the cheese shop next door is far more
interesting to me, and smells better.
Lastly I want to mention my favorite,
Breukelen, which looks like an ironic spelling of Brooklyn because that’s
exactly what it is. The storefront is burnt red wooden panels, with BREUKELEN
in charcoal gray capitalized lettering, simple and modern. Inside the flow of
traffic is well managed, the baristas familiar and matter of fact, as they
should be, but also not mean when you ask about wi-fi or bathrooms, which SO
many coffee places all over New York City are. Also it just keeps going and
going, a curtain opens to reveal and entire area in the back, a comfy nook for all the writers. The space is huge but remains its intimate coffee house vibe. I find
myself here most often, typing and gazing at the other writers, wondering what
they are working on or reading. I feel very comfortable at Breukelen, which
is how I’m feeling increasingly each day about Brooklyn too.
* * *
A lot has changed for me since getting to Brooklyn. I've seen so much, walked hundreds of blocks, ate the most amazing and eclectic food, attempted to make myself at home in a place that really isn't my home. I've been telling everyone this trip has an expiration date. And with expiration dates come endings. My particular New York story is indeed ending soon. It's coming up in two weeks and then I go back to San Diego, to work, to what's comfortable, to real life. New York isn't like real life, at least not while I've been here. Everything is so overwhelming, each day a new curveball being thrown at you. You have to live on your toes, be ready for what's next, and it's not easy, and sometimes it's been scary and some days it's been really hard. Almost all of the questions I was asking myself when I got here I'm still asking each day. Is this place for me? What is living in New York worth? Are any of us, no matter the borough, ever really safe? Do I fit in? I still haven't found a truly great friend since getting here, I don't know, maybe I'm just expecting too much.
What I have found out though, as I'm sitting here bobbing my head and typing in Breukelen as "Got To Be Real" by Cheryl Lynn is blasting on the overhead speakers, is that I believe being uncomfortable is ok. Being pushed is good. Move away, break up, say something you believe to be true out loud, quit your job, be proud, do something different, challenge yourself. Going outside of your comfort zone is sometimes what you need, it's definitely what I needed. It's what forces you to ask yourself the uncomfortable questions which then lead to the answers we all need. Maybe I haven't answered all of my questions yet, and I'm not sure Crown Heights is going to answer them for me, or even if New York will. Yet in its own small way, the neighborhood has opened my eyes, allowing me to write and express myself, letting me acclimate to entirely new surroundings and adapt, adjust, learn and most importantly change. I've changed for the better, and so has Brooklyn.
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