Readers Report
My Brooklyn is Boro Park. The ever-unpredictable circumstances of life have brought me to a fascinating neigbhorhood I never thought I'd inhabit. Having resided in Brooklyn from the age of 15, I had called Ditmas Park, Kensington, Park Slope and Bay Ridge home over the years. But for the past year I've lived in Boro Park, in the upper forties near 12th Avenue, and I've discovered a wondrous place I never knew existed. Here, complementing the Boro Park that everyone knows—the largest and most important Orthodox Jewish community in North America—is also a small but significant polyethnic community of astounding diversity. Today in Boro Park you will find immigrants from around the globe, from Poland to Pakistan, from Guyana to Korea. Hindus, Muslims, Roman Catholics, and of course a rich variety of Jews, all live alongside one another, all find their places and ways to worship as they see fit. And, as is happening in so many traditional Brooklyn neighborhoods, we are even beginning to see a smattering of ethnically varied young professionals—newcomers who, having been priced out of the brownstone neighborhoods they were familiar with, have begun to discover the richness of the rest of Kings County. Of course human beings never fit such definitions to a tee, and I myself fall somewhat between the cracks, having gone to primary school in the suburbs, but to high school in Brooklyn, coming from a no-longer-religious Jewish family that had called Brooklyn home often in previous decades. And, as is wont to happen in life, old patterns return in new guises. And so I, a non-observant Jew, a child of intermarriage, find myself in this changing yet traditional community, and here, living alongside a group of people who have kept this tradition strikingly alive, find a deeper connection with my roots, with my Jewish forebears in Europe, and indeed with all of humanity.
22 July 1998
My Brooklyn is 277 Pennsylvania Avenue in East New York. It is the 1950s and my bedroom window has a fire escape overlooking an alley and Barry Goldstein's front porch. My aunt, uncle and cousin lived in our building and we could cross the expanse of Pennsylvania Avenue to visit the woman doctor. Next door was my best friend Kenny Schwartz. And we could always leave our apartment doors open. Around the corner lived Stuie Marks. And we all played cards, ball or doctor on Barry's front stoop. And when it snowed, which was not often in Brooklyn, we could sled down Barry's driveway because it was so steep. Across the street was a small cemetary and a Chinese laundry. And up the block was the candy store which my friend Butchy Greenberg's father owned. And I maintain communication with Butchy to this day. Of course he is known by his given name, Harris. My Brooklyn had several synagogues. Grandma was President of the sisterhood at her orthodox shul, which had a spooky basement where the kids played during the holidays. In my Brooklyn we would walk down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Silver Rod Drug Store on Sutter Avenue or the movie theatre or the Planter's Peanut Store, or the game shop. On Saturday night in my Brooklyn, my father and I would walk to Pitkin Avenue to get the Sunday papers and a pint of hand packed ice cream. We would have a Charlotte Russe, too. In my Brooklyn my neighbors always knew when mom was doing housework because she sang in her beautiful soprano voice which could be heard at Greenberg's Candy Store down the block. In my Brooklyn, the basement of our apartment building had what was called "sheds" which were cubicles assigned to each apartment where you could store bikes or knock hockey games and you didn't need to lock them up because in my Brooklyn there was very little theft. And everyone knew each other and looked out for each other. And every ethnic group respected the other. And my Brooklyn was a mosaic, a kaleidoscope of people and attitudes. Unfortunately my Brooklyn also saw my brother get beaten up at school each day for his lunch money. But we also had skelley, and stick ball in the gutter, and real skates with four wheels and a skate key. In my Brooklyn my father made a box cart with skate wheels, a 2 x 4 and a wooden milk crate but boy could that thing go. In my Brooklyn, I had extended family within 10 miles of my apartment. Grandmas, grandpas, cousins, aunts and uncles. And we'd all get together once a week or picnic at Hempstead State Park on Long Island. Or gather for a relative's funeral or celebrate heartily at a wedding or Bar Mitzvah party. Yes I mourn the loss of my Brooklyn. But I will always have it to visit—my mind is a museum where I dust off the cobwebs and peek in from time to time to remember that I'm alive and I had the wonderful opportunity to be alive in my Brooklyn in the 1950s.
23 July 1998
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