Turn and Face the Strange

The scene from my doorstep. Halsey Street designers must
have used recreational drugs to conjure such strange colors.

Brooklyn is a neighborhood in transition. At Spike Lee's dismay, rich former Manhattanites migrated to neighborhoods such as Williamsburg, Park Slope, and Dumbo, pricing out the area's traditional denizens. This much is evident as soon as one takes the J train into Brooklyn during the rush hour; the usually multi-cultural cars suddenly become lacking in Caucasian and Asian populations as the train passes the Hipster Havens between Marcy and Myrtle Aves. 

Over summer, my sister purchased a house in Bushwick. Although the neighborhood is not as gentrified as others, many expect that its local family-owned business will too be replaced by the coffee-houses, antique shops, and bodegas owned by David Brooks' Bobo class. In fact, the overeager have already dubbed the neighborhood "East Williamsburg," a trend that has been met by the outcry of passionate Bushwick-ites intent on preserving the area's culture.

But I am not a true Bushwick-ite, as I rarely leave my Halsey Street abode for anything but the corner deli and subway. Thus my undiscovered flaneur, dubbed Dominic to give my flaneuring a more authentic French feel, has pressed an obligation upon me: survey these unexplored streets and avenues, and record their secrets before they are lost forever.

Curt, in my imagination, is a very
promiscuous young man.
Oh Curt, where art thou?, cry his damsels!

Halsey Street, as it does on most days, smells delicious. My neighbors cook their saliva-inducing concoctions brought from their Caribbean homes. Today, though, as I walk a direction opposite my subway station, I am bombarded with an entirely unfamiliar smell: fried fish. Unfortunately I cannot claim the same sense of appreciation at this strange odor, but I imagine that in time I will claim it as my own, too. I did not, after all, welcome the smells of roasting jerk chicken and stewing oxtail curries until months after my move. "Go in," says Dominic, excited to see what is inside. As I swing the door open, the smell becomes overpowering, the sounds of boiling oil popping only adding a repugnant texture. Unfortunately not even my adventurous alter-ego can convince me to suffer more than I have already, and I shut the door and tread on.

This, too, will soon be painted
in a psychedelic color.

There are, as was expected, dozens of abandoned buildings. Most are small houses, already in the process of being torn down and rebuilt as pretty townhouses. A surprising amount are old churches, which becomes less surprising when I realize I've passed at least six in ten blocks. One strikes my attention in particular. A tree, still leafless from winter, stands in front of the former house of God. I ask one of the passer-bys if the Church is undergoing a renovation. No, the woman says. It will be torn down in May, when the construction of a new apartment complex begins. I hope they leave the tree intact. They simply must. It would make for a most poetic moment. 

I don't believe in coincidences.

It only plays in minor key. 

Shortly after, I walk past a large paper windmill, blowing in the rain. Strange. Shortly after, I walk past an ice cream truck parked in someone's driveway. Even stranger. My mind immediately conjures grisly thoughts about new serial killer loose in Bushwick, leaving the detectives of the Nine-Nine befuddled. Star detectives Peralta and Santiago have no choice but to call Dominic, expert flaneur. "It's probably the guy with the creepy ice cream truck." It is. 

"Where kids are our buzzzziness!"

Perhaps he is preparing for the influx of prep school boys and girls that will likely run amok in a few years? A little premature. Though, I spend a lot of time in Queens and the closer-to-the-city parts of Brooklyn and I have never seen ice cream trucks in those areas. In fact, I've only seen them in Manhattan. He can't be driving up there all the way from here, right? To be fair, there is another abandoned building that seems to be primed to become the next neighborhood daycare. I hope they do a good job of fixing up the building - the dust and missing bricks make it look like a very unsafe place for children to stay. I also question the bee mascot. I think they are terrifying. Perhaps a kitten, or a polar bear would be more appropriate. 

The setting for the next
Scooby Doo Movie.

I stop between two fairly interesting landmarks. One is a Freemason building, "The Ridgewood Masonic Temple." It is for sale, and I envy whichever bored millionaire decides to sweep in and purchase the building. Frankly, it looks like a haunted house. From afar it is no different from the many other beige brick buildings in the area. Up close, though, the little details give it an undeniably terrifying aura. Fist sized holes in the windows; the front doors locked by a rusted chain; cobwebs. Above all, the absence of vandalism, an art form present on all other unclaimed properties in Bushwick, makes me imagine that there is something either especially sacred or especially scary about this building. 

Absent the creepy shivers it would send down anyone's spine, though, the masonic temple would make for an absolutely beautiful mansion. 

"You can get a lot more with a kind word and a gun
than a gun alone."

Speaking of which, the other building was the Bushwick version of a mansion. A quick conversation with the police officer stationed across from the house informs me of its history. According to the man, assuming he isn't just pulling my leg, the house is one of many former mansions owned by Brooklyn drug families. He doesn't know who lived in this one in particular, but he's quick to embellish. Real life Kevin Costners and Sean Connerys apparently fought hard to wrest control of the Brooklyn Streets from the hands of real life Robert De Niros. I doubt the story was as captivating as the officer's, but judging from the absence of any Neo-Georgian architecture in the immediate vicinity, I'm sure it belonged to someone important.

Although empty because of the rain, I'm sure this is a
prime location for many kids' after-school activities.

I walk down an avenue and turn home. Unfortunately Broadway isn't as interesting as Bushwick Avenue, but there are a few undiscovered locations. I found a basketball court that looks remarkably well-kept. It reminds me of the public school courts I used to frequent when I lived in 96th Street. Those were far dirtier, with many of the basketball rims rusted or hanging off. I am proud to report that Brooklyn's public schools do a far better job with their maintenance - minus the absent nets, these basketball courts were pristine. Even the hopskotch and other jumping and screaming-related games painted onto the ground were perfect. The ones on the Upper East Side were more often than not made up of half-disappeared paints and non-matching colors.

The best types of graffiti are the ones left to the imagination.

I round off my tour of Bushwick by pausing at a wall full of graffiti. My brother tells me that had I gone past the Masonic Temple and turned onto Broadway then, I would have been privy to an even more impressive set of street art. Unfortunately that means braving the Gates Avenue and Broadway Junction parts of my Bushwick, which are far more dangerous. My sister told me never to stop at those subway stations at night, as they are centers from criminal activity. Perhaps some other day, when I am more attuned to the my environment. Or when I have learned Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

Not to be confused with the Hewitt School,
which is filled with the Upper East Side's
most sought after young maidens.

I am jealous of these artists who can paint such vivid pictures. They are cartoonish and yet seem so real. Their paints, while obviously quite cheap, seem to be rich, in a way that cannot be explained by mouths but can be understood by eyes. Here a mother listening to a boombox, her child in matching yellow clothes int he background. There a teacher lecturing to his class about the importance of communication in the long road to world peace. Here a woman of an alien race, eyes closed in a wonderful dream as the clock in her head ticks to the stop that she desires not. There an outline of The City, golden from the setting of a summer sun.

This is, Dominic says, indeed a special place. I think I will mourn these places when they are gone, perhaps as early as when I return from my four years of college. I am inclined to support gentrification. How can I honestly say I do not? It will bring to my Bushwick home a population that I frankly have more experience with and am more comfortable around. Yet as I write these words down I feel a tinge of guilt. My New York comes at the exclusion of someone else's, a New York that is just as vibrant and colorful and memorable, if not more so, than my own. I wonder what they feel as they see strangers like my family move in one by one, like days crossed out on a calendar counting the time they have left with their version of 11221.