Growing Up in Brooklyn, New York
Bill Clinton was president when I last lived in Brooklyn – Forty Ocean Parkway was my only address there. (I still love Brooklyn, even though I doubt I’ll ever live there again. In fact, it’s doubtful I’ll ever move back to New York City.) I moved to Phoenix in 1997, and it’s likely I’ll die here.
I grew up in the scrappy, working-class section of Astoria. Back then, we rode the GG line that went from Queens to Brooklyn. (No doubt that train line is called something else now. Has any subway line kept its original name?) We transferred at Queen’s Plaza for the F train to Brooklyn to visit family friends on Flatbush Avenue or to look at the rats in Newtown Creek. Maybe we transferred to another line. I don’t remember. The subway cars in my youth looked like cast iron, black and ugly. Seats were made of rattan and coated with shellac. When the seats frayed, bits of rattan poked you in the butt or scratched your leg. Sometimes, a good pair of panty hose got snagged by the unruly seats. Air-conditioned cars didn’t exist. Overhead fans swirled hot stuffy air around.
In summertime, my dad took me to Brooklyn’s Coney Island via subway. Once the crowds poured out of the station, everyone headed to rides and the fun began. I always wanted to ride the Steeplechase, but my father said I was too little. Instead, we rode the famed Cyclone rollercoaster together. I loved the thrill of zooming up and down then flying around curves. We also rode on the carousel and bumper cars. Once I exhausted myself on rides, Dad treated me to a hot dog heaped with mustard, sauerkraut, and onions at the famous Nathans. Afterwards, I begged for super sweet cotton candy. I loved our trips to Coney Island even though the ride from Astoria took over an hour. On other days, we rode the train to Brighton Beach.
From Astoria, the only seafront views were looking at the East River swill. I preferred the smell of salty air over the stench of rotting garbage in the alleys by our tenement building. Sometimes, the drunken superintendent was so hungover, he would forget to haul the cans out to the sidewalk on Sanitation Department pick-up days. Once my dad rented an umbrella, and we spread out our blanket. Waves picked us up, tossed us around like basketballs, and we loved it. After we dried off and ate sandwiches Mom had prepared, we built sandcastles with our plastic buckets then watched as the waves washed them away. A day of fun in the sun with real sand and surf was much better than tar beach, the city term for sunning on apartment buildings rooftops. Days at Coney Island with my dad were special, even if all the sweets gave me a mouth full of cavities.
I attended Mater Christi High School (now known as St. John’s Prep) in Astoria Queens from 1968 to 1972. A sizable number of students hailed from Greenpoint, a section of Brooklyn. In freshman year, I befriended a lovable nut named Helene who lived on Dupont Street. Assigned to every class from English to algebra, we became inseparable. She was the Abbott to my Costello. We shared chicken-salad sandwiches at lunch, hung out after school in a donut shop on Ditmars Boulevard, and talked on the phone at night. If I cracked a joke in class, Helene upped the ante and made the girls laugh even harder. I’m surprised we were never kicked out. Helene invited me to visit her family’s third-floor, walk-up railroad apartment with the tub inside the kitchen. If her Italian mother offered food, Helene said to agree, even if I wasn’t hungry. Predictably, her mother asked if I wanted a bite to eat. “A little something,” I replied.
Within minutes, the kitchen table was filled with a spread of salami, ham, cheeses of all kinds, crisp bread, olives, pickles, cannoli, and more. Wow! I couldn’t possibly eat that much, but I tried to make her mother happy. I left that night ready to explode. I tried to walk all the way home from Greenpoint to Astoria to relieve my aching stomach, but it was just too far.
During the massive construction project to build the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, linking Staten Island with Brooklyn, Dad would sometimes take us on the subway all the way from Astoria to Bay Ridge. Mom packed us a picnic lunch for the afternoon. We sat in a park watching the workers toil away slapping concrete and steel together that would one day become a world-famous suspension bridge. When the Verrazano finally opened in 1964, I was in the fifth grade. We watched the grand opening festivities on TV. After all the publicity died down, Dad drove us across the bridge just for fun.
Brooklyn in the Seventies and Eighties
My dear friend Maryann is a New York City resident, who has been in my life since the mid-70s. We met at work and kept in touch ever since. Thanks to technology, we exchange emails almost daily. At one point, she lived on 10th Street in a four-flight walk-up in Brooklyn, near Prospect Park in a cozy apartment with tattered edges. The kitchen sink always looked as if it might take its final breath and crash onto the floor. What a view her place had. If you stood on her toilet seat and stuck your head out the bathroom window, you could catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. But I loved spending time there with her and her family. Those days were special. So very special.
I lived at 40 Ocean Parkway in a tiny, two-room apartment. Unlike my other apartments, this one lacked charm and air-conditioning, but at least there was no cockroach or vermin infestation. I rode my bike up and down nearby Ocean Parkway, a major Brooklyn roadway. Sometimes, I pedaled all the way to Brighton Beach or Coney Island where I sat on the boardwalk watching the waves crash onto shore. The salty ocean smell tickled my nose. Sometimes, I brought a book to read. Other days, I rode my bike in the other direction towards the Brooklyn Bridge into lower Manhattan, avoiding taxis and buses. Weekend adventures were touring the empty Wall Street area, imagining myself as a corporate vice president. Don’t know why, but such job offers never came my way. Still, it was fun to dream that I held an important position and made crucial financial decisions.
The 1970s in New York City were also the times of the murderous rampage of the David Berkowitz, also known as The Son of Sam. Many young men and women, including myself, were on edge during that time. Were we next?
I attended classes at Baruch College at night. Until the Son of Sam case, I was rarely afraid to walk from the subway to my nearby apartment after dark. But during those uncertain days, I always looked over my shoulder. My heart raced at every unexplained noise. On the night of July 31, 1977, Berkowitz struck again, this time in Brooklyn, killing one, severely injuring another. It would thankfully be his last chance to hurt innocent people. A tip helped police nail Berkowitz, and he was sent to prison for life. New Yorkers were shocked that a chubby postal worker from Yonkers turned out to be the madman.
In the 1970s, I also discovered Junior’s Cheesecake on Flatbush Avenue. A slice had enough fat, sugar, and cholesterol to block my arteries, but I loved their cheesecake. On weekends, after friends and I packed away lo mien and fried rice in Chinatown, we’d pile into a taxi, head to Brooklyn, and buy a cheesecake or two from Junior’s. Then, we’d head back to someone’s apartment and savor every single bite. (Fast forward to about 2004 or so. I was now an animal shelter volunteer in Phoenix. Our veterinarian was headed to New York City for a conference. I knew the doctor liked cheesecake, so I told her about Junior’s. Sure enough, on her trip to NYC, she ventured to Brooklyn, had a slice and was sold. She carried home a cheesecake on her long flight to Phoenix. She was glad I made the recommendation.)
I still have a love affair with department stores stretching back to my life in New York. In 1970s, I got my first job at the now defunct Alexander’s Department Store. I was a high school junior. In my era, everyone held a job. Most girls worked in the many department stores spread across New York City. Boys helped in kitchens or stocked groceries. At the age of 18, I applied for and received my first credit card from Abraham and Straus. I loved riding the train to Fulton Street in Brooklyn to shop there. I liked to look sharp. What lady doesn’t? A&S had such nice clothes. I spent a lot of money there. Now, I read the store became part of Macy’s. I worked there too and loved when there were so many department stores to choose from. Those days are in the past – The department store is now on life support.
In 1982, I took up a friend’s challenge to quit smoking for a day. My stubborn pride was wounded, so I had to try, at least. I doubted I could last, but I made the effort. One day led to two and to three. I never smoked again. Back then, I needed a reason to stay off my addiction to cigarettes, so I took up jogging and ran in dozens of local races. Some races were in Brooklyn, such as the Runner’s Love Brooklyn, Bed Stuyvesant 10K, Brooklyn Half Marathon, and more. By 1986, I had built up enough mileage to enter my first NYC marathon. I’ll never forget the thrill of running off the Verrazano Narrows bridge onto Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, where half the race takes place. The raucous cheers of Brooklyn residents motivated me to plod along. All along Fourth Avenue, people clapped and applauded. I couldn’t possibly have looked good, huffing and puffing away, but residents called out my number and cheered me on. Other residents handed out water and orange slices to us weary runners. Trained physical therapists offered massages to our aching feet. A school band played the uplifting theme from the hit movie, Rocky. A few even offered prayers. Divine intervention surely helped edge me over the finish line. By the time the winning runner crossed the finish line, I was barely halfway through. But I finished each of my three marathons in 1986, 1987 and 1990, which would be my last.
Present Day
I now volunteer at Sky Harbor airport in Phoenix, meeting and greeting passengers from all across the USA and around the world. Once in a while, I come across a passenger from Brooklyn. What a joy to reminisce about Brooklyn, the old and the new. Those conversations always bring back fond memories.
The Brooklyn of today has tall office buildings, chic cafes, super expensive housing, and lots of young hipsters. Wegman’s, the popular upstate NY grocer where I once shopped when living in the Finger Lakes region of New York, now has a store in Brooklyn. I hope it’s as successful in Brooklyn as it is in upstate NY. I loved shopping at Wegman’s.
Brooklyn; however, has a past it cannot escape, one of mob violence, drugs, gangs, and poverty. I was a social worker in the 1980s. Although my field placements and jobs were either in Manhattan or the Bronx, I am well aware of the complex social problems faced by poor and low-income Brooklyn residents. Although I never worked again after my car accident in 1994, I kept busy with volunteer work, some of which included stints at refugee and homeless agencies. I did and continue to do as much as I can to stay connected to the world around me.
Maybe one day I’ll visit New York again. I’d like to tour the Transit Museum in downtown Brooklyn and see the ocean again. Maybe at Brighton Beach or Coney Island. I’m not picky. I gave up sweets in 1982 after I quit smoking, so there won’t be a visit to Junior’s. I’m a Muslim convert, so I’d like to visit a mosque or two in Brooklyn or eat in a Middle Eastern restaurant on Atlantic Avenue. But I’ll never travel there in the winter. I’m done with the cold, snow, and ice. I’ll sizzle here in Phoenix before I’ll ever return to a winter climate. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even see Ocean Parkway again one day – You never know!
Thanks for traveling with me down memory lane. And Brooklyn, thanks for the memories of the Grand Army Plaza, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, the Botanical Gardens, shopping on Fulton Street, Coney Island, Prospect Park, the traffic laden Brooklyn Queens Expressway, oh the traffic, Flatbush Avenue, and more. A high five from Phoenix to Brooklyn.
Debra J. White: A 1994 car accident ended Debra’s career due to brain trauma. She re-invented herself through volunteer work and writing. Debra wrote for magazines, literary journals, reviewed books, contributed book chapters, and wrote a book for TFH Publications. Her website is http://www.debrawhite.org
THE CITY KEY 