I told her I grew up in Red Hook. Which was only kind of true. I grew up in Gravesend and Park Slope, in Red
Hook, Key West, Gainesville. But Red
Hook, those were my formative years.
We lived in this brick house at the end of Beard
Street. It’s still the house of my
dreams. Wooden staircases, restaurant
stove, tin ceilings, fireplaces, an English garden. This house could eat my 400sq foot studio for
breakfast.
My mom worked at a nonprofit on Van Brundt street. My other mom owned an international shipping
company that worked out of the warehouse down the block. My parents were heavily involved in the
community and we went to city hall meetings to make sure the garbage dump
wasn’t built in Red Hook. We went on
marches protesting that “DAMN DAIRY PLANT” down the block. We built gardens on the waterfront and worked
to restore the old trolleys. I was extremely helpful by bringing art into
Red Hook by way of an outdoor performed modern dance to Let it Be.
Not many of my school friends would visit me so I made
friends on the block. There were 2
apartment buildings across the street and I guess they didn’t have doorbells
(??) because I would shout “Elissabeeeeth, Nelllsoooon” over and over until
their mom opened the window and leaned out.
“Can Elisabeth come out to play?”
Then the two of us would call for Kris. Oh my god Kris. I looooooved Kris. I spent hours looking out my window into his
window wondering what he was doing.
Asking my magic eight ball if he and I would get married some day.
“Krriiiiisss, can you come out to play?”
When the heavy door to his building squealed open my heart
skipped a beat. I bet if I heard that
door today I would still catch my breath.
Then I’d hear the basketball dribbling on the concrete sidewalk. Squeal of door, bounce of ball. Those are the sounds love is made of.
“Hey,” he’d say and pass me the ball.
“What’s up,” I’d say, and dribble the ball between my legs
like a goddamn pro. I was all curly hair
and jammed fingers. An 11 year old lover
in baby blue Air Jordans. (I scrubbed
those beauties with my toothbrush once a week.)
We’d play until the sun set and then some. We drew a square on the warehouse next to my
house. Hit it with your ball for a
point. (We once burned out a soda crate
and tied it to a fence for a hoop. But
someone stole it…) Quick 10 point games, every man for himself. Nelson sometimes joined us before he got too
old to play on the block. When no one
could come out, I would play by myself, practicing bouncing the ball against
the wall and catching the rebound for an ally-oop. If I was going to join the WNBA and if Kris
and I were going to live out my Love and Basketball fantasy, I had to start
getting good.
When we weren’t playing basketball we were at the corner
store buying candy. None of that
chocolate crap either. We liked the hard
stuff. Pure sugar packed into tubes that would turn our
mouths blue or maybe a pack of sour straws that we smoked like cigarettes. We
would shake up soda bottles and
leave them in the street for cars to run over.
Because. Hilarious.
In the winter we crammed into the hallway and played
monopoly. Yelled at people when they had to walk over our board
to get to the stairs and messed up our house placement. The hallway was dark but warm and thick with
the comforting smell of Ecuadorian food.
If it was summer, we would lay our bellies on the sun warmed
bricks in the garden and roll roly polys to see whose went farthest. Or me and Elisabeth would draw a whole house
out on a piece of paper and see where our slug babies would go.
“Look, yours is going into the bathroom!”
Elisabeth taught me all the Spanish words to the
Macarena.
We rigged a skateboard with a rope. One sat, one ran, both fell. Most of my scars are from those days. But the trick was never to go inside. Not for a band aid or to use the
bathroom. Because that’s when the
parents would remember you existed and make you come in for the night.
Things changed after 9/11.
My mom took pictures of the towers burning from our roof. My other mom lost her shipping business. My parents went to 6 funerals. The experience gave them pause. They were tired of the New York rat race and
wanted to slow down and live the life that New York collectively realized could
be gone in seconds. Within a few months,
they sold our house, enrolled me into Key West High School and my sister into
Montessouri. 3 months after that, my
fifth generation Brooklyn family moved to Key West.
I stopped playing basketball at school because the nearest
away game was an hour away. I lost touch
with Elisabeth and Nelson. Kris and I,
despite the magic 8 ball predictions, did not get married. It was 7 years before I visited Red Hook
again. There is an Ikea now and a
Fairway. There are man buns in Sunny’s
and a candy shop selling only chocolate.
My mother’s warehouse is owned by some artisanal artist brewing beer with
wood or making wood with beer. The English
garden has no light anymore because of some crab shack minigolf monstrosity
blocking the sun. I passed my house and
saw a blonde boy playing with his phone on my steps. But I could still see Kris’s name written on
the sidewalk from that time he wrote it in the wet cement with a stick.
I’m back in New York, living in Harlem now. It feels good to be back here. My world weary body is ready for it. I’ve lived in 5 different countries, 10
different cities. When people ask me
where I’m from, I’ll say New York. If I
feel they’ll get me, I say Brooklyn. But
if I’m feeling real, I’ll say “I grew up in Red Hook.”
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| Red Hook: May 2001, Van Brundt Street. Aunt is wearing Red Hook G.A.G (Groups Against Garbage) Shirt |
