Honorable Mention 2017 Brooklyn
Non-Fiction Prize
"To Brownsville"
By
Daysean Higgs
Any Brooklynite knows the harsh reality of crime in our
borough, and thanks to the media so do those not from here, my neighborhood is
no exception. Growing up in Brownsville projects, I never felt too safe. No one
assaulted or threatened me, but it was clear from an early age that a line had
been drawn in the sand between my family and our neighbors.
I didn’t truly understand where the tension came from at the
time. We were no saints, but surely nothing was purposely done on our part to
provoke them. A good deal of the building would congregate outside, whether in
the park or on the benches out front. Whenever any of us came or left it felt
like all eyes were on us. Whether it was coming from the grocery store, or
going to church on a weeknight, the walk from the apartment door to the curb
felt like the longest part of the trip. Looking back on it, I wonder if that’s
part of the reason why I shy away from attention today. We weren’t popular in
the positive sense, even now I don’t think a tenth of the neighborhood know our
names, but they know which apartment we live in.
Back then, Brownsville was more chaotic than it is now (which
for some, may be hard to imagine). There were multiple shootings every month,
the rates of which went up during the Summer. I’ve seen brawls in the
playground behind my building, heard gunshots too close for comfort, the
flashes of which would hit my window. These days I see kids scampering around
doing things they shouldn’t do, during my adolescence it was the adults who
caused the scenes. It seemed like everyone wore red, and to wear said color
without being affiliated with the group wasn’t something anyone did. If I
wasn’t aware of the things that happened after dark, I’d think it was cool, the
fraternity of it all. I’d never attribute every incident to them, but it
created a sense of community nonetheless. One my family and I were not apart
of.
Of course, this sense of isolation or negatively standing out
spread into school. I had friends, still have them now, but I always knew there
was something different. While I grew academically, some seemed to mature in
other ways. Before I could get accustomed to the slang a new thesaurus was
needed. After school some kids went to their friends’ houses or hung out in
parks, I always went home. I wasn’t envious, though I did note the differences.
I’d hear my neighbors call each other by name, leave their apartment doors
unlocked for one another, have cookouts, none of which we have attended (of our
own volition). There were little things done to make us feel unwelcome. Not
holding doors open for my mother, hurrying into the elevator, and other things
my parents could tell better than I.
After considering all the above, the constant sense of danger
and being unwelcomed caused me to become somewhat paranoid. I didn’t have any
reason to trust my neighbors and I dreaded running into any classmates outside
of school. It wasn’t that I felt targeted, I guess I figured people wouldn’t
trip over each other to give us a helping hand. The saddest part, was that I
began viewing those around me like how they were stereotypically portrayed on
television.
In school we learned about civil rights activists and how
they fought racism, segregation, etc. However, there was no oppressive
Caucasian in my story. In fact, the only white people I could recall were my
teachers and I didn’t have any problems with them. My issues, my angst, the
people whose necks I wanted to wring shared my complexion, lived in public
housing with me, worked the same minimum wage jobs as my parents. It wasn’t
until I got older that I truly realized whenever you put people together,
regardless of gender, race or religion, there will be differences, and there
will be problems, as it’s in our nature. But, there is good as well.
The people I never spoke to are the same who offered me warmth
when I got locked out one winter. The people I said I couldn’t trust, trusted
my mother to wait with their children for the school bus. The neighborhood kid
underneath us was the one who ran and got my dad when I was hit by a car. One
of the bodegas across the street sent us get well gifts when my siblings and I
got sick from their candy. The same people I accused of shunning us are the
same who never fail to hold some sort of vigil for any of our deceased
neighbors. The young boys who’d run around in red are the same who open doors
for all of us now. The petty thieves who’d waltz into my mom’s old store look
out for her after dark. The guys I said I couldn’t get along with entertain me
at barbershops with their stories. The same people who watched us as we went to
church are the same we bring palms to every Palm Sunday.
Despite the enlightenment about my neighbors that came with
age, there was still one thing I hadn’t gotten over. That being, wanting out of
a neighborhood I felt caged in. Unto this day, I’ve truthfully been out of town
once, and it was short lived. It wasn’t that all I knew was New York, or
Brooklyn that bothered me, rather at times that all I had to go on was
Brownsville. That my big picture
perspective would be based on one sliver of land. Whenever I went to the city
as a child and took a moment to observe the landscape I’d be in awe of the
bright lights and grand architecture. Naturally, when I returned to Brownsville
it’d have the opposite effect. I felt I should’ve been living in a condo next
to Toys R’ Us, not the projects. I was never one for fashion, but my classmates
had me convinced that if you bought clothes from the neighborhood you were lame
or poor. Everything worthwhile seemed to be outside of Brownsville. I’m unsure
to what extent I internalized all that, but it manifested when I got into high
school.
I went to the same public school from pre-k to 8th
grade, around the corner from our home. I hadn’t ridden the train much alone
before, but I would be traveling to Hoyt St. and Borough Hall for the next four
years, or so I thought. Going to school
in a new area came with the opportunity to reinvent myself, riding the train
meant I’d be going places and seeing new things. That also brought with it new
personalities and obstacles. Of all the freshman classes mine was the most troublesome.
I was an A student through and through, but the amount of fights my classmates
were in boggled me. Gym was worse, it bought everyone with a bone pick to the
same locker room. Still, I hadn’t been threatened or targeted, but that same
looming sense of danger crept back over me.
Eventually I made friends who had the same basic interests as
I, nothing taboo, just kid stuff. I went from being the boy that came home on
time to the boy who would come home over two hours late without a phone call. I
hung out at my friends’ houses after school, something I never really did.
Somehow homework still got finished and my grades survived, remaining high.
Around that time, I began hearing older students say: “Hey, we going to the
hood today?” A good deal of the kids who got into large fights weren’t even
from neighborhoods as notorious as mine, and yet that’s where they wanted to go
to earn their stripes. Compared to where I lived and the jobs my parents
worked, these kids were in the suburbs. It didn’t sink it yet, but that proved
some of the crime in our neighborhoods are from outsiders.
In my sophomore year,
I was fifty-fifty about school. Schedule changed, new classes, new teachers,
new classmates. Generally, I disliked it more than freshman year and I was over
all the rowdy nonsense. This was when I discovered the secret art of skipping.
“What? You mean we can do all the fun stuff during school hours rather than
after?” It got me. Cutting last period turned into leaving after lunch, getting
to school late and leaving early turned into skipping the entire day. Of
course, it got to the point where I had begun skipping a week of school at a
time.
A truant in his prime, I managed to pass most of the exams I
needed on the days I showed up. After years of lying, hiding mail, throwing
away report cards and calls home, it caught up with me. I all but settled with
the fact that I wouldn’t graduate, and in senior year a counselor suggested I
transfer schools to avoid that fate. Then the most ironic of things happened,
this new school, the one that would give me the greatest chance of graduating
relatively on time, was located a few blocks from my home, in Brownsville.
It was convenient, but I disliked the idea of being so close
to home. Though, the idea of a restart and a diploma was promising. I met the
staff there and immediately they fell in love. Except for my attendance, there
was no blemish on my record, I had a good amount of credits with no behavioral
problems. Seemed like a good fit, until a counselor put this idea in my head.
He basically said that there were some altercations between students in the
neighborhood, then he says it’s possible that I could be approached by a gang.
The man was doing his best to be honest and prepare me for whatever, but I went
back to my narrow-minded views about Brownsville. I had no intention of making
friends, I just wanted a diploma and to be left alone, assuming I wouldn’t get
along with anyone.
Within the first week of school I picked out three students
to avoid at all costs. Each of them were popular, confident, and one wore red
every day for the reasons I stated earlier. They drew a lot of attention and I
wanted to be invisible, contact with them was not an option, but it was
inevitable. I already had this idea that
the students were the type I avoided all my life, by then I thought I was
dealing with the most extreme cases.
I was only there for six months, graduating that August
rather than June, a miracle for me to get a diploma in the same year as my
friends. I disliked going to my old school, but I honestly looked forward to my
second one. In the beginning I kept that
loner thing going, eventually gathering attention for my grades and perfect
attendance. As a child that was something people would be jealous of and/or use
as a reason to mock me. However, when classmates noticed my decent reputation
and grades all I got was respect. I didn’t become the jock, but I never got
negative attention. Some of the most respect I got was from the three guys I
didn’t want anything to do with, eventually forming a friendship with each of
them. I heard a of couple students stepped their game up when I arrived. In a
sense, those three were Brownsville personified, changing my perspective on the
neighborhood and all the other people they stood proxy for in my eyes.
Most of those students lived in the area. They each had
struggles of their own, and while they weren’t perfect, their yearning to
graduate was as genuine as mine. Getting to know them, hearing their problems
and what kept them from passing classes made me feel ashamed. I went through
things growing up and they only made me pour more into my school work. Their
situations weren’t as relenting, but there I was, occupying a seat next to
them, in a school for second chances that not everyone who needed one would
get.
There are other things I could mention about my six months
there, life changing things, some of which have allowed me to write this today.
It’s funny, growing up I wanted to get out, then my own mistakes bought me back
here, to a place more accepting than I gave it credit for. In that regard, not
only my time in that school, but the past two decades in Brownsville have
humbled and taught me a lot. My dreams were filled with ways to honor my family,
now they include paying homage to where I’m from. I don’t know my neighbor’s
names, still haven’t been to their cookouts, but I do say “hello,” or “good
evening” when I get a chance. Through small gestures I try to convey my respect
for Brownsville, in preparation for when I do something on a massive scale.
The longer I write this, the more I want to write. The more I
realize what needs to be said, deserves to be said. How all that friction
between my neighbors was partly out of my own judgmental nature. Or how we
didn’t embrace them anymore than they did us. Who knows? So, seeing as there is
no way right or wrong way to conclude this, I’ll end it as such:
To Brownsville, my home, sorry, and thank you.
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