My Ghetto and Me

We are said to live in an "information society", where a wide array of knowledge diffuses its way to a newly-enlightened public, through a variety of media.  Our nation boasts a vast network of colleges and universities; media empires fill a host of communications venues with "content"; and the internet can be accessed through an ever-expanding list of devices and gadgets. Unfortunately, almost none of this filters its way to the children who swarm and tumble over the stoops on Liberty Street, swirling like wind-gusted autumn leaves around the knees of the dope peddlers who try to ignore them.

But for me, little of what we call "information" stacks up against some of the things I learn on my half-block strolls from the driveway that flanks the 140-year old carriage house to the nasty little bodega on the corner of Liberty and Clinton.

On my first visit to the bodega, I wasn't yet confident that it was safe to wander the neighborhood, and I circled the inside of the store warily, tentatively inspecting the contents of the shelves that line both sides of the island that runs lengthwise from front to back.  There I found a rich assortment of poor choices -- cookies, donuts and packaged snack cakes; multiple varieties of chips -- corn, potato, and plantain; plentiful beef jerky and pork rinds.  The shelves held a few scattered boxes of sugary cereals, a carton or two of minute rice and a few cans of beans, represented a hint of nutrition, but basically it was a Nutritional Zone of Death.

I turned my attention to the long row of refrigeration units on the far wall, where a small assortment of soft drinks competed for attention amongst a few acres of beer.

I found a diet coke and headed towards the counter, when I was brushed aside by a muscular black man in a tight, sleeveless shirt.  He had burst in the door and was pounding on the counter, demanding something that sounded like a GlassRoast.  He was clearly in a hurry.

The young Yemeni behind the counter gave the man a blank stare, as if he had not heard.  He glanced sideways, at me, and then back at the vehement customer.  He obviously didn't want to deal with this particular request in front of a stranger.   The man grew angry, and shouted the request more loudly.  I had no idea what he was trying to get; what he said sounded like "GlassRoast, I know you got 'em". 

The clerk looked again at me, and back at the man, and then slowly, as if doing an act against his better wishes, took a small object from behind the counter and passed it across.  The customer threw down a five dollar bill and ran out of the store.

I walked back to the house, taking Clinton down to Grand, and there, parked along Clinton Street, was a car with the vehement man from the store in the driver's seat. He and a white male companion were leaning forward and seemed to be concentrating on a task together.  I did not stay around to watch.

That night, a little internet research cleared up the mystery.  He had bought a Glass Rose.  These are traditionally purchased by Catholic school girls, in connection with communion and other events.  The little vial in which the rose is encased is apparently perfect for mixing and heating crack, the quickest and cheapest cocaine high on the street.  The roses are discarded and left on the ground.

Regarding what I have learned on Liberty Street, high on the list is that it can be misleading to describe the ghetto and its ailments purely in terms of race.  Here, for example, a white man and a black man were cooking their crack together, having purchased a key piece of equipment from an arab immigrant who had somehow landed in the wrong neighborhood in the land of opportunity.

Another episode that has stayed in my memory occurred last summer on a hot day.  On my way into the store I was immediately preceded by a young couple with two toddlers, a boy and girl.  The man and the kids stationed themselves at the counter while the woman went to the back of the store.  The man was olive skinned and the woman a lightish caramel; their accents were tinged with a hint of latin mingled with ghetto, I suspected they were second generation Dominican or Puerto Rican.

At the foot of the little counter, right at toddler-eye-level, is a glass-enclosed freezer case filled with ice cream.  The kids were facing directly into the case, and were having a little riot, jumping up and down yelling excitedly "ice cream, ice cream, ice cream".  My own kids had staged similar riots in their time.  

The man's tone was gentle as he hushed them up.  "I am sorry, kids, but I only have five dollars. I don't think we will have enough money left for ice cream."  My hand reached reflexively for my wallet, but I knew that offering to help risked offending the parents.

The woman came from the back of the store, triumphantly waving two large 22-ounce cans of beer.  She beamed at the man.  As she placed them on the counter, the clerk said, expressionlessly, "Four dollars."  The man looked down at the kids and shrugged, "See," he said, "Sorry."

I slinked quietly around the little tableau to the customary shelf from which I retrieved my usual diet coke, and watched them leave the store.

A few weeks later, I was riding my bicycle on Liberty Street, heading back to the house from lunch at the Caffe Machiatto.  It was a blistering hot day, and I passed two ice cream vendors working the street, one peddling a primitive cart/bicycle contraption, the other a large ice cream truck playing various jingles, including, incongruously, a tune that I have always associated with the song "Union Maid."  The truck had already visited the corner of Liberty and Clinton, and there, on the stoop directly opposite the bodega, were the usual thuggy group of street-corner drug dealers, only they were happily licking ice cream bars.  They did not look scary or evil; they just looked like a bunch of overgrown boys enjoying a moment of well-earned bliss.

Sometimes, even when I am far from Newburgh, I close my eyes and all I can see is the kids swarming the stoops on Liberty St. 

Not long ago, I was at a pleasant gathering in suburban Westchester. The conversation ranged through the usual subjects. Home prices in the neighborhood were covered, as well as which local youths had been admitted to which ivy league colleges. The Yankees had traded for yet another middle reliever. Someone recounted their treacherous encounter with a sand trap at the golf course.

I was quiet, which didn't seem to bother anyone but I wanted to blurt out the words: "But it's wrong." 

And if I had, someone might have asked: "What is?" 

And I could only have said: "Everything."

I have some ideas about what can be done. One of them brings to mind Joni Mitchell's famous Woodstock lyric: "And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."

A Tale of Two Newburghs

The house at 297 Grand Street is approximately 100 yards from the intersection of Grand and Clinton. Turn right or left and you will find two different worlds.

 

If you turn to the left, a very short block brings you Montgomery Street with its long stretch of historic architecture in varying stages of restoration and/or decay.  Glimpsed between the houses, stunning views of the Hudson.  These buildings are all that remains of what was once an expensive swath of 19th century architecture. The urban "renewal" wrecking ball, which arrived in the 1970’s and demolished entire blocks of such structures -- along with the community that lived in them. These historic landmarks were replaced them with bland-looking low-rise projects and grassy knolls affording no particular charm or utilitarian value. According to local folklore, the destruction would have continued down the entire street, but a local woman lay down in front a bulldozer and brought the demolition to a halt. 

 

When you first reach Montgomery Street, the building on your right is the elegantly neo-classical Captain David Crawford House, built for a wealthy sea captain in 1830.  It serves as the headquarters of the Newburgh Historical Society ( http://newburghhistoricalsociety.com/) and houses a lovely museum, chock full of 18th and 19th century furniture, Hudson River School paintings, and a host of artifacts and brick-a-brac, all managed by one underpaid, part-time staff person and a cadre of fanatically dedicated volunteers.  

 

Hidden away on the upper floors are a library, various collector's items, and a substantial archive of local and regional history.  It is a pristine, lovingly-maintained oasis of Anglo-American civilized values.  The scaffolding around the building indicates an ongoing repair project and continuing need for financial support.  

 

If we go back to the corner of Grand and Clinton, and turn right this time, we find ourselves in a very different place. Another short block leads us to Liberty Street, paved in brick and housing many old homes and churches.  I must describe all four corners of this intersection. 

 

Starting with the southeast quadrant, there is the charred ruin of a burned-down industrial building.  The city is apparently still struggling to clean up the environmental hazards at the site.  Long-time residents still recall the night the building exploded into fire and lit the sky for hours.  It was suggested to me that the company that operated there is still in business outside the city, but has not been made responsible for the cleanup. Whatever the facts, it is now city property and another millstone around the neck of tired Newburgh.  

 

Across Liberty St, on the southwest corner, there is a hodge-podge row of shabby-looking two, three and four-story houses.  In front of the corner building a group that was described to me as  "the Jamaicans" play dominoes at all hours.  They also throw parties on major holidays like the 4th of July, where for an admissions fee (somewhere between $ 10 and $ 20) you can share in the beer and barbecue.  Ganja is extra. Sometimes, they use yards behind abandoned buildings in the general vicinity.  I have heard the music, and once was even invited to attend -- my erstwhile pal and ghetto-guide Freddie needed help with the cover charge.  I demurred, suspecting my presence would cast a pall over the entire party.

 

Continuing our tour, the northwest corner is at the end of a row of once-stately brick townhouses all bestowed with stoops which teem with life, at any time of day or night.  Young women push strollers and cradle infants, kids toss balls, play tag and argue with each other, old women sprawl and look exhausted, and young men push drugs. 

 

Once, I managed to watch a large, complex deal go down.  The cash was passed out of a darkened car window while the party inside remained invisible.  Sentries on two corners exchanged hand signals, and then a cell-phone call was made.  At a house near the corner, a door opened and two men emerged with a large carrying case for a musical instrument, which was brought over and loaded into the rear of the vehicle. 

 

Mostly, it's a retail business.  White kids drive in from the suburbs, park their cars at a distance, and try to look nonchalant.  Middle-aged men cruise by in pickup trucks and make furtive exchanges.  The dealers look like overgrown boys, but they try to seem thuggie and tough.  They avoid eye contact with me.  When I recognized one,   a stepson of Freddie's, he ducked into an alley to avoid being tainted by a friendly gesture. 

 

I believe this is the image most of the world imagines when they read the less-than-positive coverage about Newburgh in the headlines.

 

This leaves me to describe my favorite corner of the intersection.  At the northeast portion, closest to my own Liberty St. driveway, sits a bedraggled bodega at the base of a slummy brick three-story building.  Hoodie types linger in the doorway, and trash is strewn in all directions.  Two young men from Yemen, with perpetually dazed looks on their faces, stock the pathetic shelves and man the front counter. Reigning over his small dominion, Abdul, grayish and closer to my own age, makes sandwiches and watches over the store from a rear counter.

 

Sometimes, I stroll over to the store for a diet coke, if I am hot and sweaty from the garden, or just bored.  At first, I always carried a sharp object, even it was just a garden tool, with a handle protruding conspicuously out of a rear pocket.  But no one messes with me.  If something happened to a respectable white guy, it would bring attention and be bad for the dealers' business. 

 

I have tried to describe two Newburghs -- a pristine preserve of preservationist perfectionism and a deep ghetto, with its vibrant, but lawless atmosphere.   Both within a few feet of the little corner of Grand and Clinton.  But I neglected to mention a small house along Clinton Street, directly across the street from the industrial ruin. 

 

An elderly couple maintain a postage-stamp size yard, with a neatly-trimmed lawn, and tidy borders of flowering plants.  They run a tight little ship, pulling weeds and cleaning up the trash that drifts down from the bodega.  They pay the city taxes which rise mercilessly year after year.  They do not attend the annual high tea or educational lectures at the historical society, nor do they party with the Jamaicans.  They cling to a tenuous, lower middle-class existence, their values enduring while their community erodes around them. 

 

Once I was standing in front of their little yard, looking across the street at the graffiti and trash around the collapsed building.   I felt sad and angry.  These people deserved better.  But how? 

 

My own Newburgh venture seemed like a terrible, hopeless mistake.  And then I had, for the first and only time in my life, a vision.   Not a heavenly visitation like Joseph Smith or Saul of Tarsus or Joan of Arc, but an image so clear I could see it, although I knew it existed only in my imagination.  I saw a gleaming new structure of glass and steel, with greenhouses and brightly-lit classrooms.  It even had a name -- The Andrew Jackson Downing School for the Study of Urban Horticulture.  When I try to describe it to people, they shake their heads and write me off as a nut job.  But the vision persists.  It requires further explaining. That's what the blog is for.  All in due course.

 

My heartfelt thanks to anyone who is taking the time to read my meager effort. 

Of Gardens and Ghettos

 Lately, I find myself sometimes telling people that I am a bit of a fraud. I don't mean it literally, of course. But since I began the Newburgh project, I often find myself running up against severe limitations. I spend endless hours in trying to landscape the property, and I believe that gardening -- for reasons I will get to eventually -- is the key to saving Newburgh; but when someone asks me the name of a particular plant or tree, I either can't remember or never knew in the first place. It’s the same when I talk to any of the local artists, city planners, historians, the carpenters and electricians who come to work on the house; I try to pretend I know enough to hold my end of the conversation, but I don't know all that much about anything, really. However, I think I know something about how to analyze and solve problems. And how to fix troubled situations. It all begins with the azaleas.

The house in Scarsdale

Nearly 30 years, my wife Susan and I bought our first home, on the outskirts of Scarsdale, in lower Westchester County, a 25-minute train ride from midtown Manhattan. The home was a 1920's Tudor, on a pleasant, leafy street, and had a small yard on the side, graced by an oak tree. We had been told that a couple of owners back, there had an English gardener lady, and the bedraggled bed in the center of the side yard had once held prize-winning roses.

Now and then, on the weekends, I made a small effort to clean up the yard and plant a few things. I didn't consider myself a gardener, it was just something to do. There were babies and then toddlers in the house, and my busy job as a corporate lawyer didn't allow for much recreation or vacation.

Along the edge of the yard, in front of an old slate wall, was a tangled jungle of vines -- Virginia creeper mingled with poison ivy and other things I never learned to name. Hacking away at these vines was sort of enjoyable, and at their base, I found some scrubby shrunken shrubs. I don't recall if I knew what they were, and the poor, miserable things were barely clinging to life, but they seemed to be evenly spaced and set into a straight line, so I cleared away everything around them, fed them a little holly tone, and waited for the next year.

The following spring they had filled out a little and showed a few flowers. I realized they were azaleas, of course. I had never really thought much about photosynthesis, until I saw how these little shrubs transformed themselves over the next few years. It seems like a miracle to me, the way invisible light is transformed into green, oxygen-producing leaves. But it's a miracle with a cruel underlying reality -- that one plant's existence was at the expense of another's health.

Once I had cleared the vines and the weeds, the azaleas could grow again. As they grew out (again) we were eventually rewarded with a remarkable show each spring. The English gardener lady predecessor had chosen and placed with care. The colors were brilliant and juxtaposed with each other perfectly, a blend of yellow and purple and pink, a wall of color every year. I would not have had the time or vision or knowledge to select the varieties that I found there, so I could not have created the wall of azaleas from scratch. But I was there to rescue them; I saw their potential and nurtured them back to health. I did not create the glorious display that re-appeared every spring, but my efforts had made it possible.

Over the course of my business career, I was occasionally confronted with messy situations. Once it was a law firm on the verge of financial collapse. Another time a client and friend had allowed himself to become mired in a disastrous real estate situation. Once I was invited to be Board Treasurer of a non-profit, only to find they were in crisis. This is not the place to belabor all the details; only the participants would care. Each time, there was a great deal of stress, hard fought battles, delicate alliances, uncertain outcomes and, in most cases, eventual success. Now I know this seems unbelievably corny -- but each time I thought about those azaleas.

Shortly after I acquired the Fullerton Mansion, I was talking to a young landscape architect. I explained that I needed to add some azaleas to the property. She didn't seem very enthusiastic. Maybe they aren't trendy any more. "But, you have to understand", I said, abusing a famous quote from Socrates, "life without azaleas is not worth living." I thought she would fine the line funny, instead, she looked at me as though I were stark raving mad, then regained her composure and changed the subject. I didn't have a chance to explain. I hope this blog makes everything clear, because we are going to save Newburgh, and the azaleas hold the key.