My Brooklyn (328)

Fabio E.

My Brooklyn . . . wow . . . where do I begin? Bensonhurst Baby, where it all begins! . . . I remember growing up as a kid where every block you passed there were kids playing something. I remember those crazy games of manhunt, when I would hide on people's garage and running in and out of driveways. I remember those summers when there was a block party every weekend and you had to go and sport those new dance moves you learned. I remember my friends getting there driver's license and us driving up and down 86th Street and we would meet girls from . . . "f*ing Jersey and Long Island." . . . I remember Bensonhurst, when Italians all stuck together, but now they stick it in your back. . . . I also remember the 18th feast walking up and down, down and up, looking for some girls. . . . I'm glad I grew up there. I wouldn't have it any other way.

2 February 2001

Gene Nelson

350 46th St., the center of my universe beginning in 1942. Two doors up at 354 lived the Hynes family. Richard—Richie—was the youngest. He taught me how to tie my shoes. Fifty-eight years later our families are as close as ever.

Down the block we had Stetner's, a mom and pop deli-candy store. I think they carried half the block in their black and white note book. My grandmother would send me down to Stetner's to get malt balls, brown licorice, and dots or buttons stuck on paper—25 cents' worth. This feast would last the evening. I'd play brisk under the street light on the curb, sharing the dots with Richie, Jamsie and Joey Sala. Grandma would be on the stoop with the neighbors. TV was still a few years away. And in a way I wish it never came. I've never had a stronger sense of belonging to a neighborhood: you knew everybody on the block—didn't necessarily like them—but knew them.

We still had the wakes in the house. Your loss was shared by the block. The black wreath on the door was the topic for the week on the stoops. . . . I better stop now or I'll use all the space.

3 February 2001