Park Slope Reader

Julia DePinto

I Needed the World I was Creating

By Filed Under: Books

Our interview with Ann Napolitano on the research and real-life events that inspired her new novel, Hello Beautiful.
Our interview with Ann Napolitano on the research and real-life events that inspired her new novel, Hello Beautiful.

The first chapter of Ann Napolitano’s new novel, Hello Beautiful draws the reader in with a harrowing synopsis of William Waters’ early life in a suburb of Boston. William, a lonely little boy with a basketball, finds comfort in the repetitive sounds of the ball hitting the pavement. His world is narrow; his parents have raised him to be helpless and have deprived him of affection. His mother smokes cigarettes and drinks liquor, while his father, a miserable accountant, works long hours in the city. William’s parents forbid the discussion of his older sister, although they keep a framed picture of her on an end table in the living room. The basketball court serves as a refuge for William. In college, William meets Julia Padavano in a lecture class at Northwestern University. With Julia comes warmth, passion, security, stability, and the saga of living with her three younger sisters and two peculiar parents— under a small roof in a culturally-rich neighborhood in Chicago’s Lower West Side. The four sisters are inseparable. They finish each other’s sentences; they honor one another’s aspirations and eccentricities; and, without hesitation or judgment, they welcome William into their closely-knit kin, despite his uniquely dark past. The Padavano sisters envision themselves as the March sisters from Little Women, foreshadowing the ultimate tragedy that tests their loyalty to one another. 

Hello Beautiful poignantly catalogs the devotion of family and the consequences of loss, power, and mistrust. It is a story that sat inside of Napolitano for years, waiting to be told. In a phone call, Napolitano and I discussed the research and real-life events that inspired Hello Beautiful, and why she feels personally connected to the novel. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity. 


Hello Beautiful is your fourth published novel, a New York Times bestseller, and Oprah Winfrey’s 100th book club selection. Congratulations! You began writing the novel in April 2020, shortly after the pandemic lockdowns began. Can you tell me more about your experiences in lockdown and the other events that inspired Hello Beautiful?

Yes, I wrote Hello Beautiful in two years. My other novels took between seven and eight years. I began writing during the beginning of the pandemic when everyone in New York City was in lockdown. My dad died that month and because of the pandemic, we were not able to see him while he was dying—and we couldn’t gather after he died. This happened to many families, especially in New York. It was not an uncommon experience but it was very singular to that period. When I started writing, everything happening in the world was so weird. I was isolated and I was grieving my dad. Creating this fictional world had an urgency that, usually when I write, doesn’t exist. This is attributable to what I felt during that time. I needed the world I was creating. I wrote more quickly than I ever have in my life.

The “urgency” you felt to write the novel is interesting. A lot of creatives had breakthroughs in 2020. I have friends who were highly creative and productive in their work, and others—including myself— who shut down. Their creative process was completely hindered by the pandemic lockdowns and economic fallout. 

That was my experience too. The writers I know either wrote obsessively or they found that there was no way they could write at all. One reason isn’t better than the other. I think people did what they needed during that period. I’m glad I was able to write because building a new world was helpful when the real world was in shambles. I found it to be reformative and healing. It was nice to have an escape. 

I can appreciate that— the visceral act of thinking and writing to otherwise escape the unsettling reality we were all living in. Would you say that writing the novel also served as a catharsis? Parts of the narrative arrived from a place of grief. 

Early in the book, the father of the Padavano sisters dies. I didn’t know he was going to die when I was writing. That surprised me but I also was able to go through a wake and a funeral for that father when I couldn’t for my father. Writing the story provided me with experiences that I craved and couldn’t have in real life. I didn’t plan that— it was completely dictated by the story. The story was filling empty holes inside of me in a way that I had never experienced through writing. There was a personal intensity to the emotions in the book, even if what happened at various points in the story were not actually from my life. This feels like my most personal book because my grief and the things I was struggling with pan out in the storyline. 

Other elements in the novel are personal to you for various reasons. In an interview with Oprah on The Oprah Winfrey Show, you said the narrative was “sitting inside” of you. 

Yes. I am woven through this book. Personal stories from my family are what started the book. My uncle, who lived in Chicago, would mail me postcards as a little girl. He always addressed them as, “Hello Beautiful” and that’s what the father in the book— Charlie Padavano— says to his girls. The book is set in Pilsen, the neighborhood in Chicago where my uncle lived. I have a hazy sense of the neighborhood, in this faraway city, that seems magical and fictional. It makes sense that I would build this world in that neighborhood. And Leah, my best friend growing up, had five aunts who went in and out of the house all the time. I was fascinated by them. I used to watch them like they were on television. How they would finish each other’s sentences and how they understood each other completely. They were more whole when they were together than when they were apart. Leah’s mother and her aunts inspired my Padavano sisters. 

Both you and your character, Sylvie Padavano imagined a sad boy dribbling a basketball. You write: “Sylvie tried to imagine what it would have been like to grow up in home with no affection or laughter and envisioned a cold, echoing space. She saw a little boy dribbling a basketball in order to make a comforting, repetitive sound.” (p. 193)

Can you further discuss the vision of the young, sad basketball player and your vested interest in the sport? 

I always tell my students that they should pay attention to their obsessions because often, the weird things that pull one’s attention will materialize. A few years before I wrote Hello Beautiful, I became obsessed with the history of basketball. I was reading about the history of social justice and was interested to learn that the history of basketball runs parallel. There are amazing figures like Bill Russell and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar who had great strides in civil rights. I was fascinated with the history of basketball— so I knew I was going to put that into the book. I can’t articulate why that was so meaningful to me but it was, and it was meaningful to William too, the main character. My obsession with basketball showed up through his lens. 

William Waters, the four Padavano sisters, and many others had significant roles in the story. How did you write the characters? 

For the last two novels, Dear Edward and Hello Beautiful, I did this thing where I would finish the book and then for nine months to a year, I would not let myself write “pretty” sentences— which is what I like to do the most. For example, I like to write a scene and then have a character walk in and say something I didn’t expect. It’s like being a reader because it’s an act of discovery. When I’m doing that, I can’t think analytically. I can’t figure out what makes sense for the story because it’s all intuitive. So, for the first nine months to a year, I don’t let myself write “pretty” sentences. I research, think, take notes, and try to figure out what kind of story I want to tell. I try to figure out who is in the story and what is the most interesting aspect about each interaction and scene. There is a lot that I figure out during this stage, and the characters are part of that. When I actually begin writing, a lot of the notes do not get used. The notes are extensive but will turn out to be wrong. Fortunately, the time I spend mapping out the characters and thinking about them does make them three-dimensional and real. This exercise gives me a starting place that feels solid. I feel like I know them from the first page, and then their stories evolve from there. They surprise me, and again, the intuitive part takes over. 

Researching the historical scope of basketball, coupled with the image of a sad basketball player, became an obsession. Do you find that you are constantly thinking about the characters until the book is in its final stages or published? 

Yes. For example, with basketball, I knew that I was fascinated with the history of the sport. Before I began writing the book, I thought that the character of William might become an NBA physio— which is a person who assists athletes with their bodies. I interviewed an NBA physio in LA while I was there on tour. I try to explore every possible idea that I have and everything that excites me during that period of writing the storyline and developing the characters. This practice is helpful so that when I start writing, I know who they are. They do end up in situations that are unexpected and the deeper work of writing is trying to figure out the right response of the character. 

Do you ever find that you need separation from the characters or do you continue to work through creative challenges? 

My previous books took many years. When I was writing Dear Edward, I would walk into the world of Edward and build the story inside of it, and then leave it at the end of the day. I would continue to think about it— but I would leave it. That was enjoyable. With Hello Beautiful, I was feverish. The story was living inside of me and the only way for me to get any peace was to figure it out. There was tension and urgency. The only way to not make myself sick over it was to write and get the characters’ stories right. I had no break from it. I was always thinking about it. It felt very important. 

In an Instagram post, you wrote that the reason you write is to “make sense of yourself and the world”. I think a lot of artists, regardless of medium, would agree. They are writing or painting or making music about the things they are experiencing. Creating can be enjoyable, albeit compulsive, but it’s also work. The concept of “work” sometimes gets lost. 

I think that’s true because if you’re not an artist, the concept of “art” sounds more meaningful than what a person may think of as “work.” Often, people look with a certain amount of longing at the idea of having work that is so meaningful and rewarding. Art is romanticized, but of course, it is also challenging and difficult. It requires all of me when I’m doing it. It requires all of my experience; all of my curiosity; all of my interests and attention; all of my striving for excellence— everything. There is no way to half-ass it and have it be any good at all. I write because it is the most fulfilling, self-engaging activity I can conceive of doing. 

Ann Napolitano is the author of the New York Times bestseller, Dear Edward. The book was adapted into film series on Apple TV+. In addition, she has authored, A Good Hard Look and Within Arm’s Reach. Hello Beautiful is Napolitano’s fourth published novel and Oprah Winfrey’s 100th book club selection. Napolitano lives in Park Slope with her husband and two sons. 

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Family Money

By Filed Under: Local Literature, Park Slope Lit

An interview with Jenny Jackson on the events that inspired her debut novel, Pineapple Street. 

In the opening scene of Jenny Jackson’s hilarious debut novel, Pineapple Street, Sasha, cynically referred to by her in-laws as “Gold Digger”, is reluctantly rummaging through an unused bedroom in her four-story Brooklyn limestone. The bedroom houses an egg-shaped iMac desktop computer, a pipe buried in a drawer, and a ski jacket with a hoard of lift tickets latched to the zipper. The house serves as a portal to 1997. For Sasha, a graphic designer and Brooklyn transplant, returning to the 90s meant living in her rich husband’s childhood home, filled with his memories and family histories, and mostly, “his family’s shit”. 

Pineapple Street tells the intergenerational story of the wealthy Stockton family through shifting points of view, as three sisters navigate the complexities of life, love, class, and privilege. The novel reads like a sociological survey of the one percent, giving its audience an inside look into the lives of Brooklyn’s elite. Jackson, a Vice President and Executive Editor, takes inspiration from the early days of the pandemic and her slice of Brooklyn Heights to chronicle the Stockton sisters’ eccentricities, competing interests, lessons learned, and above all, their loyalty that is bound by the ancestral limestone on Pineapple Street. 

In a phone call, Jackson and I discussed the widening gap between racial and economic inequality, WASP family dynamics, the trust-fund anti-capitalist millennials who inspired Pineapple Street, and what MTV’s “Cribs” taught us about money. Our conversation has been edited for brevity and clarity. 

Pineapple Street is your first published book. Congratulations! 

Thank you. I’ve worked in publishing for 20 years, but this is my first time sitting in the author’s seat. 

Yes, I read that you are an Executive Editor and Vice President at Alfred A. Knopf. Have you written other books that have not been published? 

I had not written any books before 2020. During the pandemic, I began writing something else as an exercise before writing Pineapple Street. It was an exercise in releasing demons and figuring out how to write a novel. Pineapple Street is my first complete book. 

I always wonder if novelists have written books that have been shelved and if their debut novels are their first attempts at publishing. You began writing Pineapple Street during the pandemic? 

Yes, I started writing it at the end of 2020. I was living in Brooklyn Heights on Pineapple Street and wasn’t leaving a 10-block radius. I missed my friends and was lonely; I walked around the neighborhood every day. I believe that the novel grew out of the experience of needing people to talk to. 

It’s interesting that inventing characters and writing dialogue are derivatives of pandemic-caused loneliness. Was there an aha moment that led you to write a book set in Brooklyn Heights? 

The novel is set in Brooklyn Heights because I felt so intensely connected to my tiny slice of Brooklyn at that moment. Three distinct lines of thought came together. I spent a lot of time with my family during the pandemic. I have two small children and we spent a lot of time with my parents and in-laws. A good friend of mine had the experience of living in her in-law’s beautiful brownstone while they were living elsewhere. She moved into her husband’s childhood home with their baby. It was strange because all his parents’ stuff was still there. She would tell me outrageous stories of living amongst their things. And then, simultaneously, on my wanderings, I became obsessed with this house on Pineapple Street. It was so big! No matter where you lived during the pandemic, your own four walls began to feel like they were closing in on you— but this house was enormous! It had huge windows showing a parlor with a chandelier and a grand piano. I fixated on who lived there. I mean, who has a grand piano in the city? Lastly, I was inspired by Zoë Beery’s article in The New York Times called, The Rich Kids Who Want to Tear Down Capitalism. She writes about socialist-minded millennial heirs who are set to inherit vast fortunes that are at odds with their morals. They want to give away their money and the family lawyers are trying to stop them. These three ideas spun around in my head. I would write, go for a run down by the Brooklyn waterfront, and then come home and pour these ideas into my computer. 

Pineapple Street interlaces the lives of three sisters who are each navigating the flaws and insecurities that they believe are tied to generational wealth. In Sasha’s case— acquired wealth. Their recognitions of class and privilege are largely introspective and somewhat contradictive; they all seem to be searching for fulfillment, or, at the least, contentment. How did the characters develop? 

Sasha, the in-law, came to me first. Her story is a natural place for the novel to open because she invites the reader into the rarified world of the Stockton family. She gives the reader an unvarnished look into how wildly strange the family is. I also knew I wanted to create a character who was around a decade younger than Sasha. I am a geriatric millennial, on the cusp of Gen X. My attitude as a young person was different from the Gen Z attitude about money. That’s where Georgiana’s story came from. She is delightfully bratty and, at the beginning of the novel, is very self-absorbed. I also knew that I wanted another point of view from someone inside the family who could contrast the attitudes of Georgiana and Sasha, so I wrote Darley’s character. She took a while to figure out. It wasn’t until I changed her name that her character started to flow. 

I agree that Darley’s name is fitting. I enjoyed reading her corresponding chapters. She is outwardly poised and charismatic in her way— although we learn that her confidence is overshadowed by regret. Are there women in your life or events you experienced that helped shape Darley’s narrative and internal battles? 

My best friend from college has children that are a full decade older than mine. She and I have had many interesting conversations about what that has meant for her life. She threw herself into motherhood while I threw myself into work. There were a lot of times when she grappled with trying to find meaning as her children grew older. She has done so beautifully but it was, in some ways, more complicated for her when she entered the workforce later. I was well-situated in my career before I had kids. Our conversations have informed the way I wrote Darley, who struggles with the same questions. 

The novel captures the essence of millennial and Gen Z culture and the jarring differences between younger generations and older generations. Tilda’s character struck me. I am entertained by her brazen human qualities although they are out of touch with the cultural shifts— like economic and racial inequality— that her children are mindful of. 

Yes, Tilda is the most extreme character. Her confidence is a combination of willful blindness and an attitude that if you wear a stiff upper lip, everything will be fine. Some of that is generational but her attitude toward her children is like her attitude toward money. She is willfully unexamined. 

Right, and it’s clear to the reader that despite Tilda’s idiosyncrasies, her children rely on her. 

I loved Tilda as a matriarch. Families that have a strong matriarch like Tilda or otherwise, have a fascinating way of orbiting around that person. She might not be the most emotionally in touch with her children, but she is the first-person Darley calls when she has the flu, and she’s the one Georgiana both relies on and blames for her problems. 

The Stockton sisters internalize and excuse their race and class privilege. They intentionally practice wokeism in a way that is relatable to anyone who shares one or both characteristics. Have you had any of these moments yourself? 

Yes. There are many things that were not examined 10 years ago that we would never do now, like Cinco de Mayo parties in college that were not thoughtful. Thank goodness we’re all waking up and taking a hard look at things we’ve done in the past that are harmful. A lot of people, regardless of background, have had to look at their baked-in racism and classism. 

Georgiana seems to have the most poignant reckoning with her privilege. I adore the scene at the family dinner table where she retells a conversation that she had with Curtis at an Oligarch Chic-themed birthday party. Malcolm, the only person of color at the table, explains the nuances of perpetuating harmful stereotypes.  

Yes, and she is aware enough to be mortified that Malcolm is the one to tell her. 

Right, and she is aware enough to recognize that her family is not fully invested in the conversation anyway. 

The scene gets recreated at the gender-reveal party for Sasha. Tilda regularly hosts theme parties that are full of stereotypes and microaggressions, and it would never strike her as inappropriate. Georgiana is the one to step forward and say “this is problematic” but she’s also wasted and emotionally out of control. 

Earlier in the conversation, you said that the narrative for Pineapple Street was partly inspired by Zoë Beery’s article on the rich millennial heirs who are redistributing their wealth. The editorial foreshadows Georgiana’s character. You also said that you are a “geriatric” millennial. 

How do the millennial and Gen Z attitudes towards wealth differ from that of older generations? 

Growing up in the 80s and 90s, our attitudes about money were culturally shaped by shows like Troop Beverly Hills, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and MTV’s Cribs. We grew up thinking that money was awesome and if given our choice, we’d like to have a lot of it. It was a simple relationship between money and wealth that was unexamined. Over time, as income inequality has become greater, and the events of Occupy Wallstreet happened— and Bernie ran for office and AOC became a major player— our national attitudes towards wealth have shifted and young peoples’ attitudes towards inherited wealth have changed. I don’t think these young people have the same unexamined relationship with money. Gen Z is terrific. Their socially minded attitudes are going to help eliminate the huge income gap. 

You begin the novel with a Truman Capote epigraph: “I live in Brooklyn. By Choice.” Where in the writing process did this quote come to you? 

The quote came late. In the novel, Georgiana tells the story of the Truman Capote house on 70 Willow Street. In recent years the CEO of Rockstar Games bought the house and wanted to put in a pool. The neighborhood was outraged at the changes he wanted to make. It turns out that Truman Capote borrowed an apartment in the basement from a friend but never owned it. I lived in Manhattan when I was 22. I would hear people complain about the “B&T” people, meaning the “bridge and tunnel” people. There was this ridiculous snobbism about people who didn’t live in Manhattan. At the time, I would hear that and believe that living in Brooklyn was undesirable. It’s funny because the young people moving to NYC now all want to live in Brooklyn. It’s sought after, even prohibitively sought-after. 

Jenny Jackson is a Vice President and Executive Editor at Alfred A. Knopf. Pineapple Street is her first novel.

Maeve Higgins Is Using Creativity to Figure Out The World

By Filed Under: The Arts Tagged With:

The Irish comedian and author of Maeve in America is back with a new collection of essays that examine the imperfections of her adopted country— while learning important lessons from the pandemic and showing love for everyone on this train. 

In March 2020, shortly before New York City went into coronavirus lockdown, writer and comedian Maeve Higgins found herself at The Alamo wedged between myriads of Border Patrol Officers with buzz cuts and homemade rifles. In the following months of forced isolation, Maeve discovered that one, like every person in every part of the world, she wished the pandemic would end, and two, she hoped that the experience would not impart any lessons. The lonely days of too much solitude, a mishap with edibles, and the realization that relationships are important, led Maeve to write a collection of essays that reflect on Irish nostalgia, American exclusivity, widespread injustices, and the extraordinary circumstances that led to deep analysis of what it takes for one to survive in an adopted country. In her memoir, Tell Everyone on This Train I Love Them, Maeve examines the complexities of the present while looking to the past, and finding compassion for those with radically different worldviews. Maeve makes it her mission to accept New York City for what it is and to try to love everyone on this train. 

In a phone call, Maeve Higgins and I discussed the creative process, controversial monuments, living in Park Slope on a freelance budget, and listening with compassion instead of judgment. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity. 

You are a writer, an actor, a performer, a comedian, a researcher — and a podcast co-host and panelist. You are an artist in just about every sense of the word. Your many different skillsets and art forms are fascinating to me. The creative process, in general, is always fascinating to me. I’m a writer and visual artist, but I tend to define myself as a visual artist before calling myself a writer. I am curious to learn how you define yourself, and how you have developed these many different creative skillsets. Is stand-up comedy how you began your career? 

Yes, it was in stand-up comedy where I started my creative career. You get it because you also do all of these other forms of self-expression, like writing and visual arts. For me, it’s writing and comedy—like, performing on stage. It doesn’t feel unnatural; there wasn’t a moment where I stopped doing one to do the other. I kind of did them all simultaneously, or I suppose, in which medium best fit a specific idea. But technically, yes, comedy was the first thing I did. I’ve always had this compulsion to express myself, which took the form of stand-up, beginning in my 20s. With my writing, I’m gradually asking bigger questions and have more resources. With comedy, you can have a thought and then kind of spew it out that night— and then it’s done. Writing, for me, is a form of painting. If I’m really trying to figure out what I think about something, I write it down. 

You describe personal reflections, in regard to your creative process, that struck me. Perhaps it’s because they felt familiar. For example, you discuss a period of conflict between theatre and film. You write that it became “impossible” for you to “suspend reality enough to enjoy any form of acting.” You continue the dialog to include the “politically fraught era” in which you were living at that time, and admit that you “ran out of time and tolerance for anything outside of the real.” Can you talk further about how political and/or real-life events can, at times, hinder motivation? Or pause the creative process entirely? 

I think it’s interesting, too. I’ve talked to my friends who are writers and performers about this. I do think we have a responsibility to show up politically in the world, not as an observer but as an actual participant. It’s really important to stop and think about where we are and what we are doing and why we are doing it. And that can also be really difficult. If you’re going through personal things or collective things, like what we have been going through with a semi-authoritarian government—and pandemic and climate catastrophe—but you’re not really showing up, then you’re not actually taking it in. I think creativity has a really important place in figuring out the world. 

“Situational Awareness” was one of my favorite essays. I was completely engulfed in this chapter and your experiences at the Border Security Expo. You write about the reflective interactions and conversations you had with others who encompassed fundamentally different ideologies than yours. These exchanges forced you to think about your own history as an Irish immigrant. Is there one encounter, in particular, that is the most memorable? 

One event that stayed with me was a kind of social event at the Border Security Expo. I was there alone and attended a community gathering. There were retired Border Patrol Officers and current Border Patrol Officers— and that’s where they were also auctioning off handmade rifles. The moment that was interesting to me— remember, I was a woman there by myself, and an Irish immigrant one—was at a luncheon. I asked to join a group at this table, and they were so kind to me. They were completely welcoming. It was very human that they would be like— “oh, a stranger. Let’s make her comfortable.” And at the same time, I really disagreed with their work. I know that they dedicated themselves to stopping strangers in need of help, from getting the help they are entitled to— and yet, in person, face-to-face— they were so lovely, and we totally connected about tons of things. I think it is important that I put myself in these types of situations and not let it just be an intellectual exercise where I judge other people and read studies. It’s important to meet people and be there physically. I think that’s one of the times you’re asking about that’s memorable. These moments are not simple. 

Throughout the book, you discuss your experiences as an Irish immigrant who found an “adopted” home in the United States. Your experiences as an immigrant, in some ways, are radically different from the experiences of others, such as migrants and refugees. 

I am lucky because I’m allowed to have a different viewpoint. I am a guest in this country but a very welcomed one. I’m also white and European and documented. I get to have this perspective that is “outside” but also “inside”— and that’s really valuable for writing. I can start to blend in but at the same time, I have a different cultural experience. Every one of us has a different perspective and I believe that I am lucky to be able to write from mine. 

Right. And you recently finished a graduate degree in International Migration Studies that allowed you to investigate the politics and power dynamics at the border. The heavy research component of this essay seems like it would influence the creative process. The essay is both autobiographical and journalistic. 

At the end of 2019, I was writing so much about migration and continued taking on more assignments. I realized that I didn’t want to be a writer who “didn’t know enough.” I don’t know if you’d call it professionalism or imposter syndrome, but I felt like I was in no position to write about migration, so I decided to get a Master’s in Migration Studies. I am fascinated by the immigration system in the US and the country itself. In New York, one in three of us were not born in the US. I was glad to have access to brilliant minds and scholarly work that I could draw from and learn from. 

You write about the profound experiences you’ve had with historical statues, including the Robert E. Lee monument and Kehinde Wiley’s “Rumors Of War”— a bronze statue depicting a young Black man on a rearing horse. These are both controversial monuments that, for a brief time, existed in the public sphere near one another. I saw “Rumors Of War” in Times Square, before it debuted in Richmond. As an artist, I’m always interested in hearing others describe profound moments they’ve had with works of visual art—and in this case, monumental works of art. 

I didn’t see “Rumors Of War” when it was in Times Square although I wish I had. That sounds so cool because every inch of Times Square is so commodified. It would be interesting to see the statue there, and to ask, “who is Kehinde Wiley in this scenario?” He’s so celebrated. I saw “Rumors Of War” immediately after I saw the Robert E. Lee monument, about a mile away. The energy coming off the statues was so different. When I saw the Robert E. Lee monument it had been completely taken back by the Black community and the allies in Richmond. It was graffitied with a vegetable garden around it. There were also tributes to Black people who had been murdered by the police. It was stunning to me. The images illuminated with anyone who had even slightly been paying attention that summer. There were incredible visuals of images being projected onto the monument. Seeing the monument in person— and the size— and the fact that it really did dominate the city, really took me aback. That and reading all of the graffiti that encompassed it. It wasn’t just BLM and anti-police—it was also pro-migration. People were really using the monument to say the things that they had wanted to say for so long. 

The energy surrounding “Rumors Of War” was different. Kehinde Wiley said that the statue is “in conversation” with all of the other monuments— which were all Confederate monuments. This statue was his response. He created a conversation that was painful and necessary, but that’s what it is— a conversation. It’s really nothing more frightening than a conversation. I had quite an emotional response to the monument.

In the essay, you brilliantly contextualize the meaning of the monuments and relate them to Ireland’s revolutionary history. 

Yes. “Rumors Of War” immediately reminded me of the “Misneach” monument in Ireland, which I write about in the essay. I used to walk by monuments every day in Dublin, but it wasn’t until I saw “Rumors Of War” that I was able to connect these things. I’m not interested in being prescriptive but I did have the reaction of— “this is not the first time a country has had this conversation.” Americans are so insular. They don’t always understand that they can look to other places for answers. Understanding other nation-states can help conversations evolve. 

The visuals of defaced and desecrated Confederate monuments are truly powerful. I often wonder if it’s more effective for cities to remove monuments, or to allow the public to take them back by way of graffiti or toppling. As you mentioned, people were making trips to the monuments to better understand our Nation’s complex history. You interviewed some of these folks. 

Yes, I did. I wanted to know what the locals in Richmond felt was best, and of course, everyone has a different answer. That’s why these conversations are so important. It’s such a privilege to be a writer and to be upfront with people by asking questions to better learn. 

The title of your book is inspired by the last words of a young man named Taliesin Namkai-Meche. Taliesin was murdered on a train in Portland while trying to protect two teenage girls from a violent hate crime. I am wondering if this is the first time you’ve written about death? I am also wondering if you felt connected to him while meditating on his words? 

I haven’t written about death in any big way. When I heard his words, my reaction was shock. I was shocked by his heroism and by what he said. His words really stayed with me. I kept them with me and continued to use them as a guide. I didn’t really feel like I connected to him as a person as much as I connected to his words. Before this book was published, I spoke to his parents. He has such a public life and death. In the past few months, I have been looking more at his life— and that was why I wanted to publish a piece in The Guardian. I don’t claim any special relationship with him because I did not know him. All I know are his words and this one incredible action that he took that led to his death. 

The title of the book is perfect because it echoes not only the compassion that Taliesin had, but themes of compassion throughout. 

So many people took his words to heart. That story and tragedy— and seed of hope— was a big moment for all of us. The point of his words is that we are all connected. 

Maeve Higgins is a contributing writer for The New York Times and the host of the podcast Maeve in America: Immigration IRL. She is a comedian who has performed all over the world, including her native Ireland. Now based in New York, she cohosts Neil deGrasse Tyson’s StarTalk, both the podcast and the TV show on National Geographic, and has also appeared on Comedy Central’s Inside Amy Schumer and on WNYC’s 2 Dope Queens. 

Amy Touchette: A Candid Approach to Capturing Community

By Filed Under: The Arts

By Julia DePinto

“Photographing strangers on the street is like having an epic novel read aloud to you, only it’s real. You’re connected. You’re involved. And you carry every piece of it with you from then on.”

Amy Touchette, Personal Ties: Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn

Touchette adores New York City. The visceral energy and the frenetic vibrations; the architecture; the history; the diversity and blending of cultures— the city is a sea of inspiration for visual artists and storytellers to sink into. Touchette spends the late afternoons of warm summer days canvassing the city’s streets and searching for captivating characters. Her photography practice explores themes of social connectedness by celebrating New Yorkers in their communities and within their social groups. An antiquated Rolleiflex film camera makes her intentions explicit. Young people gathered in units, families sitting on stoops, grannies pushing carts of groceries, and teenage girls flaunting their individuality, are among the subjects of her pictures. Touchette provides her subjects with the space to present themselves in their most authentic form, highlighting the features that make them emboldened and unique. 

“One of the greatest things about New York is that you can be a misfit,” Touchette told me, in a phone interview. “Misfits belong here.” 

Touchette moved to New York City in 1997, after completing a Master’s degree in Literature and living in San Francisco and DC. She worked as a managing editor in the publishing industry and painted large-scale compositions of jazz musicians in her kitchen. She was steadily climbing the ladder of corporate America when the unthinkable events of September 11 transpired. At the time, Touchette was living on Bleecker Street in the West Village, only a few train stops from the Twin Towers. Traffic was cut off from her neighborhood and the stench of smoke and death was unavoidable. The landscape had been permanently altered.

“It looked like the end of the world had come,” said Touchette. 

She described the horror of the terrorist attacks and the extraordinary loss that New Yorkers felt. Touchette’s younger brother had enlisted in the army one year before the attacks and was one of the first troops to deploy to Afghanistan.

“It was surreal. There were all these posters up that said ‘have you seen my mother’ or family member and it was awful because if you didn’t have a loved one missing you knew they were gone.” 

From Personal Ties: Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.

Feelings of devastation brought on by the events of 9/11, coupled with feelings of loneliness and complacency in her career led Touchette to rethink her profession and life’s pursuits. She enjoyed oil painting, albeit a solitary art practice, but was searching for a greater purpose and desired human connection. The posters of missing persons were reminders of her mortality. Street photography, Touchette decided, easily lends itself to being an interactive medium. Making pictures of community members would ease the feelings of solitude and satisfy her anthropological curiosities about the human condition. 

“It felt imperative to do what I was supposed to be doing— which was photographing my community,” said Touchette. “9/11 was such a tragic event any way you look at it but it yielded one of the best things that have ever happened to me in my life. It’s very incongruous and it has always confused me, but it is what happened.”

Touchette enrolled in photography courses at the International Center of Photography. She traded her corporate position for freelance writing opportunities that allowed for flexible scheduling. She worked enough hours to pay the rent but prioritized photography projects. The shifting landscape of the great metropolis and the recovery efforts of the 9/11 aftermath were secondary to Touchette’s conceptual interests. Her pictures, void of arrogance and lofty expectations, capture the interconnectedness of humanity— and advance brief but meaningful dialogue. Today, Touchette routinely takes two frames, providing little to no instruction. She allows her subjects to present their authentic selves, gaining much of their trust before documenting their mortality. These ephemeral moments of raw human exchange are invaluable to Touchette’s aesthetic.  

Touchette moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn in 2005 and to Bedford-Stuyvesant in 2015.  

Personal Ties: Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, by Amy Touchette, Schilt Publishing
(Amsterdam, 2021).

“Bed-Stuy is very vivid,” Touchette explained. “It’s interactive; it’s inclusive; it’s community-oriented. I got that feeling as soon as I arrived.” 

Touchette documents the streets of her adopted community by engaging with Brooklyn natives and introducing both her analog camera and iPhone. The pictures tell the stories of her beloved community, echoing shared human experiences and collective desires. A small portion of Touchette’s film portraits of Bed-Stuy residents culminated into a recently published monograph, appropriately titled, “Personal Ties: Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.” The book celebrates the relationships between families, friends, couples, and culture of the historically Black neighborhood.

The coronavirus pandemic presented Touchette with new technical and visual challenges. For one, state and city mandates required New Yorkers to stay inside and socially distance when outdoors; and two, strict mask mandates were enforced. Facial expressiveness is instrumental to the art of portrait photography. Touchette, however, embraced the challenges the pandemic presented. She photographed New Yorkers from safe distances in open-air spaces and incorporated the masks into her aesthetic. She found that Brighton Beach occupants were particularly welcoming. 

Far Rockaway Beach, Queens; 2021.

Touchette is currently working on a series of candid street portraits taken with her smartphone. Unlike the collaborative pictures she makes with her film camera, these pictures are taken quickly, candidly, without express permission beforehand. The series, “Street Dailies” feature Touchette’s favorite NYC muses and are archived on Instagram. Touchette explained that the advent of digital photography and the rapidly developing technology of smart cameras and social media are essential to her art. 

“It’s very liberating to photograph with a smartphone because I can capture moments that I can’t always get with my film camera. I really believe in the candid, documentary approach— I don’t always want to see the photographer’s heavy hand in the photo.”  

Manhattan Avenue, Brooklyn; 2022.

Editor’s Note: I first spoke with Amy Touchette in early May, on a weekday when major news headlines were nuanced and predictable. The ongoing Russian invasion of Ukraine and continued outrage among progressives over the leaked SCOTUS draft overturning Roe headlined the day’s top stories. Amy and I discussed her two-decades-long career of street photography— including thousands of pictures, numerous awards and exhibitions, a poker-sized deck of playing cards, and a recently published monograph. We also discussed the 9/11 terrorist attacks and how the event impacted her personal life and career trajectory. Two weeks later, as I was finishing this feature, the breaking news of the terrorist attack at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, TX began to circulate. Sad and angry at the things I alone can’t resolve, I stopped writing and began to consume as many of the grim details as I could stomach. When the photos of the young victims began to surface, I was suddenly reminded of our conversation and the visceral weight a picture can carry. Photographs are records of human mortality. Beneath the surfaces of the images of the children, lie the complexities of our existence. 

Amy’s pictures are evocative of the moments that shape our lives— and forever remind us of the sanctity of being alive. When I look back through Amy’s pictures, I can appreciate the good in humanity. The bold personalities she captures, the intimate moments between families and friends, and the personal ties within community. They remind me to never give up on humanity.    

Anna Meejin: On Identity, Ancestry, and Finding a Place in American Culture

By Filed Under: The Arts Tagged With: ,

An invincible nostalgia for an unlived experience is illuminated through Meejin’s art. 

Lady in Green (2021), oil on canvas, 24″ x 36″. Image courtesy of the artist.

Anna Meejin’s paintings of landscapes, dinner plates, portraits, and horses cover the walls of her Brooklyn home. The large-scale paintings are hung salon-style against exposed brick, juxtaposed with ordinary household furnishings and decor. The lushly smooth surfaces with rich color palettes and ambient metaphor reveal a totality of nuanced domesticity, cultural patrimony, and the complexities of American history and Western civilization. Meejin’s paintings pay homage to the people and events in her life while reflecting a perpetual curiosity about a culture she has never known. 

Meejin’s legal name is Anna Mee-Jin Hurley-Echevarria. She was born in Manhattan and raised between New York City and Puerto Rico. Anna’s mother is Puerto-Rican; her father is of Irish heritage. Although she was raised in a culturally pluralistic home in one of the most diverse cities in the world, Meejin always knew she was adopted. The striking physical differences between her and her parents were inevitable. The enforced societal expectations of constructing an American identity—for a child growing up in the early 2000s among rapid technological advances and economic crisis— led Meejin down a tumultuous road of self-discovery in an extraordinary period of US history. 

“I was always trying to figure out where I fit in,” Meejin told me over the phone. “I knew I was Korean but never had a relationship with my culture.” 

In the series, Considering Her Past (2020-21), Meejin explores the delineation she often feels from her Korean identity, while simultaneously searching for her place in contemporary American society. Painting through the pathos of confusion and detachment, she creates exaggerated portraits of Korean women and fictional horses. Traditional objects of cultural importance entangle with narratives told but not lived. The illustrative compositions examine the dichotomy between what is and what could have been.

“I was going back in time learning about the traditional things,” Meejin explained. “I was thinking about an experience I never had.”

Sweet Thoughts (2020), oil on canvas, 36″ x 42″. Image courtesy of the artist.

In “Sweet Thoughts” (2020), an invincible nostalgia for an unlived experience is illuminated through the portrayal of a seated Korean woman, holding an intricately crafted folding fan. The traditional Korean fan, called a hapjukseon, dates back to the Goryeo Dynasty which ruled Korea from 918-1392. Covering the slim bamboo strips and the delicate frame is a painted landscape, applied directly to the hanji— a fine handmade paper made from mulberry trees. The hapjukseon covers the nude female figure, whose stylized anatomy and downward gaze are placed in the center of the composition— and are confined by the barriers of the canvas. Her porcelain-white skin and rose-colored makeup date back to the cultural aesthetic of early Korean Dynasties, long before Eurocentric beauty standards came into existence. The figure is ungrounded, floating in a dream-like state through lulling brushstrokes that sweep across the surface of the canvas. 

The Last Peach (2021), oil on canvas, 36″ x 48″. Image courtesy of the artist.

In “The Last Peach” (2021), Meejin creates a fictitious world to poignantly route her lived experiences. The painting is paramount to Meejin’s Korean-American identity; the narrative is heavily influenced by Western allegory and Korean metaphor. A celebrated horse, symbolic of the historic European ideals of power and conquering a people or place, is painted in the center of the composition. The horse’s neck is outstretched; his jaw is defined. His gaze is determined by greed. Dangling above the horse from a flimsy tree branch is a ripened peach. The peach is vibrant, fresh, and representative of Korean ideals of abundance, fertility, and longevity. It is a symbol of wealth that taunts the horse, whose form becomes distorted with the desire to obtain its fortune. In the backdrop of the painting is a pool of water that eventually drowns the horse. 

Steak Frites (2021), oil on canvas, 24″ x 36″. Image courtesy of the artist.

In her recent work, Meejin has turned to those around her for inspiration. Oil paintings of friends and family members have shifted Meejin’s aesthetic from personal narratives to the subtleties that encompass the existence of others. Nuanced scenes of domestic routine warrant the stoic expressions of the figures who gaze back indifferently at the viewer. The figures sit in chairs at dinner tables and desks. They eat dinners of steak frites and snacks of delicately sliced fruits. They read books and smoke cigarettes. Bold color palettes and atmospheric lighting set the tone of the paintings— elongating the forms and evoking a sense of belonging. The paintings provide an astonishing direct line to reality and the shared human experiences that exist in all cultures. 

Pablo Forever: Memorializing a Brooklyn Native, While Planting Seeds and Learning to Ollie.

By Filed Under: Park Slope Life, Sports

Pablo Ramirez. © Pablo Ramirez Foundation.

“Pablo wanted people to live in the present,” said New York City skater, Erik Rivera, during a phone interview. “The one time I skated with him was like magic. He just had this positive energy— and he made people more positive about their vibes.”

Pablo Ramirez, known to the skating community as “P-Splifff,” was a New York City native, musician, artist, and professional skateboarder. He was raised in Park Slope, where he lived with his mother, Loren Michelle—a chef, business owner, and world traveler. His father is a New York City attorney. Ramirez excelled at friendly and competitive sports, including ice hockey, cycling, and street-skating. His friends can’t recall a time when he was without a skateboard. High-impact sports provided Ramirez with true autonomy. He often said that he felt “alive” while gliding through urban environments and pushing his body past its physical limits. Through the visual and performing arts, Ramirez was able to find creative freedom and individuality. At a young age, he discovered the philosophy of expressionism through music, particularly through the language and melodies of classical jazz. He studied music at Edward R. Murrow High School, and later on, at The New School. As a teenager, Ramirez asserted his knowledge of music into the public sphere by playing at jazz clubs, bars, and venues. At the time, Brooklyn’s DIY music scene fluctuated between jazz and new wave punk. 

“He really understood the language of music and was able to read music from an early age,” Loren Michelle told me, over the phone. Michelle purchased a drum set for Ramirez when he was a child. 

“We played a lot of shows together,” said New York City musician, Sammy Weissberg. Weissberg is one of Ramirez’s oldest childhood friends. The two formed a close bond over a shared appetite for classical jazz. Sammy remembers Ramirez as both a “magnetic” person who was beloved by everyone who met him, and an “adrenaline junkie” who was often testing the boundaries of whatever obstacle blocked his way to the next great success. 

“Pablo was this really energetic person who made a lot of noise,” Weissberg said. “His confidence transcended past skating— it was just how he lived his life. He was not afraid of failure.” 

Sammy Weissberg later played a tribute to Ramirez at his memorial. 

Pablo Ramirez moved to San Francisco in his early 20’s and quickly broke into the West Coast skate scene as one of the fastest and most fearless skaters in the city. He was recruited by the novel GX1000 crew— a band of loosely structured amateur and professional skaters— all living in Northern California’s Bay Area. The Crew is internationally recognized for their clothing label, signature stunts, and daring hill bombs— a high-speed and downhill skating move that is synonymous with the city’s topographical rollercoaster of cemented one-way streets and iconic steep hills. The art of hill bombing is unrelenting in nature. The result, if not done methodically, can be brutal. Riding with a full squad provides a marginal safety net for skaters. “Spotters” stand at the bottom of the hills, timing traffic lights and obstructing motorists’ routes. Employing spotters allows skaters to ride through busy intersections without hesitation or fear of collision. One of the defining moments of Ramirez’s skateboarding career was when he ollied over the hood of an El Camino to avoid an accident. 

“Pablo fell in love with San Fran,” said Michelle. “The skate scene is like nothing else.” San Francisco is commonly referred to as the “Mecca” for street skaters and bombers. “They [GX1000] studied the roads and the hills; they timed the traffic lights. They really understood speed,” she explained. 

Photographs and online video releases of GX1000 members, racing down winding roads, crossing residential streets, dodging traffic, and sliding through busy intersections, can be found on the group’s Instagram account, and in publications like GQ, Awaysted, Lowcard, and Thrasher. 

“I remember saying to Pablo, ‘Dude, you’re on freaking Thrasher!’” exclaimed Jon Fitzgerald, during a phone interview. This was a critical moment for both Ramirez and Fitzgerald— who suddenly recognized the staunch confidence and raw talent that encompassed Ramirez’s bold skating practice and “life is beautiful” attitude. His uniquely gifted ability was suddenly coupled with fame. Thrasher, the San Francisco-based magazine company and “Bible” of all skateboarding publications, is known for being brash. The magazine’s website routinely features amateur videos of body slams and violent falls from stairways and elevated rails. 

Fitzgerald is an experienced chef, veteran skateboarder, and longtime friend of Ramirez’. The two met at a Brooklyn skate park in their late teens and maintained a close friendship even after Ramirez relocated to San Francisco. It wasn’t long before Ramirez received sponsorship from national brands and traveled the world to skate for major companies and various crews. 

“Pablo was mad good but anyone could skate with him. He just had that type of energy,” said Fitzgerald. 

Loren Michelle and Herve Riou. © Pablo Ramirez Foundation.

On the morning of April 23, 2019, Jon Fitzgerald sent Pablo Ramirez a text. As the day progressed, Fitzgerald questioned why Ramirez had not responded. It was not in his nature to ghost his friends. Ultimately, a coworker showed Fitzgerald a major news headline that would forever change him. Ramirez had been fatally struck by a dump truck in San Francisco’s SoMa district. He was 26.

Ramirez’s death shocked the skating community. Thousands of love-filled messages appeared on his Instagram account. Soliloquies of grief and gratitude were met with anecdotes from those he loved and inspired. Tony Vitello, the publisher of Thrasher magazine, said of Ramirez: “Very few skateboarders change the way we see skateboarding. Pablo did just that.” 1

Thrasher later hosted a post-memorial block party in honor of Ramirez’s extraordinary legacy. 

“In the shadows of loss, grief can turn into love,” wrote Loren Michelle, in an Instagram post, shortly before inaugurating her plans for a foundation, dedicated to the life and legacy of her adored son. The Pablo Ramirez Foundation is a space that fosters healthy living, positive vibes, and self-expression through the arts, culture, and skateboarding. The Foundation has hosted public events, including skate park cleanups, skateboarding lessons, art openings, and concerts; and also provides grants and scholarships to kids and young people in need. Inspired by Ramirez’s ethos of “giving more and taking less,” the Foundation aims to use its resources to make lasting changes in the lives of Brooklyn’s youth. Recently, the Foundation teamed up with Homage Skateboard Academy to offer a free week of skateboarding camp and a complete new skateboard to one student. 

One of the earliest undertakings of the Pablo Ramirez Foundation was painting a memorial mural at Washington Skate Park located behind MS 51. The mural, titled, Pablo Forever, is the beginning of many future murals and public art events. A second mural, in collaboration with contemporary artist, Steve “ESPO” Powers, is currently in development. The mural will be installed at Golconda Skate Park in Dumbo. 

Pablo Forever Mural in Brooklyn. © Erik Rivera

The murals are a powerful tribute to Ramirez whose life was shaped by the visual arts. Not long before his passing, Ramirez’s work hung in San Francisco galleries. He created over 2,500 artworks in the last few years. 

A leading project of the Foundation is to create an all-inclusive skate park and garden, ideally located in central Brooklyn. The project, called Brooklyn Skate Garden, is inspired by the lifestyle Ramirez led. Peace, good vibes, kindness, gratitude, and environmentalism are embedded in the spirit of the project. The multifaceted skate park and gardens will serve as a space for youth to find community while skating, creating art, listening to live music, and planting seeds. The idea for the skate park initially came from a group of teenage skaters who envisioned an all-encompassing park in the heart of Brooklyn. 

“Skate parks are kind of an afterthought,” Michelle remarked. She explained how NYC skate parks are often uninviting and unmaintained— and commonly located on the outskirts of cities and under bridges. “The fundamental question is, ‘how can we make a skate park, not like a skate park? How can we make a skate park that is for everyone?’” As a skater herself, it is paramount to Michelle that skaters of all ages feel a sense of belonging in the skate community.

“Skateboarding is the energy behind the skate garden, but it’s really about culture, music, and art,” she told me. “The park gives kids a place to come and to be part of a community.” 

Earlier this year, the Brooklyn Skate Park received an endowment of $300K from Council District 39’s participatory budgeting ballot. The response to the conceptualization of the park has been overwhelmingly positive. 

“Pablo would be so happy to see the whole community, not just the skate community, come together to do something for the youth,” said Rivera. “We [skaters] want to leave a good path for them. Pablo would be astonished. He would want to reciprocate that energy.” 

“Pablo would think the skate park is sick,” said Fitzgerald. “He doesn’t want us to be sad, you know? His energy is still here.” 

Fitzgerald’s voice grew quiet at the remembrance of his friend. Pablo Ramirez, one most intrepid skaters of our time, was so much more than a professional athlete. His attitude and lifestyle influenced the entire culture of skateboarding by making it more accepting— more inclusive. Compassion for others was the only thing to exceed his talent on a skateboard. 

I thought about what Pablo meant when he told others to “live in the present.” I thought about the definition of failure and wondered how he, a man I would never meet, wasn’t afraid to fail. How liberating that must have been for him and for those around him. 

Softly, Fitzgerald whispered, “I do miss him.” 

1 Sullivan, Denise. “The Legacy of Skateboarder Pablo Ramirez.” San Francisco Examiner, San Francisco Examiner Media Company, 23, May 2019,https://www.sfexaminer.com/news-columnists/the-legacy-of-skateboarder-pablo-ramirez/.

Doug Schneider: On Rebuilding & Reform

By Filed Under: Community, Feature Tagged With: , , ,

Meet the Civil Rights Attorney and Democratic Community Leader Running to Represent Brooklyn’s 39th District 

“When people see politicians with children, they often assume that the children are being used as props. For me, bringing them to work is a necessity and a reality,” said Doug Schneider, over the phone. He regularly brings his children to work, including in the political arena. His seven-and-a-half-year-old son is a 1st grader at PS 107; his daughter is four. Schneider is transparent about the challenges of being a politician and equal caregiver; and, after a year of overseeing remote learning for his son, among countless other pandemic-related complications, he makes a strong case for normalizing children in the workplace— including on the campaign trail.  

In the fall of 2020, Doug Schneider, a civil and criminal defense litigator and Democratic District Leader for the 44th Assembly District, announced his candidacy to represent City Council District 39 in the upcoming Democratic primary election. District 39 includes Park Slope, Gowanus, Carroll Gardens, Columbia Waterfront, Cobble Hill, Windsor Terrace, and portions of Borough Park and Kensington. Schneider joined the primary for term-limited Councilman Brad Lander’s seat, while Lander himself is in the running for City Comptroller. Recently, Schneider’s campaign received the endorsements of 39 community leaders, including support from other District Leaders, PTA leaders, climate activists, worker’s rights advocates, and activists for transportation and street safety. 

“As we face a post-pandemic recovery, we need experienced leaders with a proven record of results,” Community Leader, Dorothy Siegel, told Bklyner in a statement. Siegel is the founder of ASD Nest, a community-focused program that specializes in serving the needs of children living with an autism spectrum disorder. Siegel is right— City Council needs an experienced leader with both a history of community leadership and an agenda to ensure a full economic recovery. 

In addition to historic economic fallout, the novel coronavirus pandemic exposed some of our nation’s deepest inequalities. In New York City, once the center of the global outbreak, many low-paid workers were forced to continue working in unsafe conditions, without proper PPE or adequate salary. When schools shuttered, women disproportionately left their careers to become full-time caregivers, and now struggle to reclaim footing in the job market. Those from historically underserved communities have experienced the highest rates of eviction, viral infection, and death. For these reasons and more, Schneider is committed to not only rebuilding District 39 but also plans to address the longstanding discrimination that has hindered minority communities. 

The focus of Schneider’s campaign platform is: 1) Transportation and Street Safety, including reimagined sidewalks and bike lanes, accessible public transportation, and the expansion of traffic safety enforcement and speed cameras; 2) Economic Recovery for small businesses, women and working parents, and out-of-work New Yorkers; 3) Education, including updated school infrastructure, expanded after-school programs, a pandemic-response taskforce, and substantial investments in higher education; and 4) Constituent Services, providing a broad range of services to constituents, including information on government programs and affordable housing resources, and an expansion of language access at the polls.  

Schneider’s ties to Brooklyn—and more specifically, to Park Slope— predate his plans to run for City Council. Though his parents are both from Brooklyn, Schneider and his siblings were raised in New Jersey. After graduating from law school and marrying his wife Joni, the couple decided to settle in South Slope, where they have resided for almost 15 years. Around the time of the 2016 presidential election, Schneider began to consider his run for City Council, as he did not like where the Trump Administration was leading the country. 

“I always had an interest in politics but never saw myself as someone who could get elected,” said Schneider. His involvement in volunteering for political campaigns goes back to 1999. After graduating from college, he worked as a congressional aid before attending law school. In recent years, he has served as a Trustee to the Park Slope Civic Council and has previously held a seat on the District Committee for Brad Lander’s participatory budget initiative.

“I saw where things were headed and I didn’t like where they were going. I began to think that I could make a difference,” Schneider said. He thought about the leading issues of the Brooklyn Democratic Party and the need for greater transparency. “I decided to run on issues that were at the forefront because they matched with the things that I have always been passionate about,” he told me. Schneider then shared his lived experiences as a small business owner, attorney, and activist. 

Schneider’s law practice focuses on civil and criminal cases, including employment discrimination and business litigation, and occasionally, pro-bono representation for street safety activists. He has worked with clients on cases related to employment discrimination, including a technician who was fired for a disability and a personal assistant who was wrongfully fired for being pregnant while she was on approved maternity leave. Schneider has also represented individuals charged with state and federal crimes, in addition to individuals under investigation by the federal government and the State of New York. 

As an experienced attorney and fierce advocate for civil rights issues and criminal justice reform, Schneider is also committed to bringing police reform to City Council by passing legislation to hold officers accountable for misconduct, and reallocating resources to invest in underserved communities. 

In July of 2020, after months of school closures across the country, Schneider organized a DOE town hall meeting to discuss NYC’s re-opening plans and devised strategies for creating long-term solutions to safely re-open schools. Subsequently, Schneider organized a protest outside of City Hall in November, demanding that New York City schools stay open. Despite the city’s increasing positive test rate for COVID-19, the positive test rate in schools was under 1%. 

“There was a path to doing this effectively, but the plan to fully re-open schools couldn’t be waiting until COVID completely disappeared,” Schneider told me. “We knew that we would eventually get to a point like today, where we are vaccinated, but we had to act before then.” He explained the lag in long-term planning and its negative effect on the mental and emotional health of students.  

In addition to the implementation of the Pandemic Response Emergency Plan (PREP), Schneider’s multi-step solution to long-term pandemic planning, he also plans to expand after-school programs, restore arts curriculum, and address the longstanding racial divides within New York City’s school system. Schneider has pledged to end the school-to-prison pipeline by replacing law enforcement with social workers and mental health professionals.

I asked Schneider how he and his family were managing to recover after a year of such intense devastation. 

Quietly, I wondered how a politician like Doug Schneider—with his extraordinary record of experienced leadership and Herculean efforts to rebuild his community— was able to hold down a day job AND be an equal caregiver. His answer was remarkably, human. He told me that his family survived in 2020. They continued to persist one day at a time— albeit still adjusting and still making mistakes, like “too much screen-time on some days.”

“We have to forgive ourselves for our mistakes made during the pandemic that allowed us to get by,” he told me. “New Yorkers are resilient and communal […] and we all did what we had to do to survive.” 

Reflections on Art, Denial, Global Pandemics, and a Cross-Country Move

By Filed Under: Feature, Pandemic Diaries Tagged With: ,

Author Julia DePinto in Southern Califorrnia

Editor’s Note: 

When my editor asked me to write about my experiences living in Brooklyn, when the novel coronavirus first hit the city— and then my subsequent move to Southern California, just as the virus and the wildfires were beginning their assaults here— I obliged, without hesitation. I had moved to the Los Angeles area over the summer, right as NYC’s economy was reopening and mass protests against police violence were sweeping the country. California was great at first; the mountains and ocean provided a likely source of comfort, and COVID-19 cases were on the decline. But then the fires happened, and then the infection rate skyrocketed, and suddenly we were back to a partial shutdown with more forced isolation. It felt all too familiar to life in NYC last spring.

Writing about the events of the past year has been a catharsis for me. I look back at the photos of empty park benches and deserted streets with a deep appreciation for the beauty of the city and the resilience of New Yorkers. Those were difficult months and some facets, like the makeshift trailer cemetery in Sunset Park, will haunt me for a long time. But like my friend Jen said, after the wildfires finally quelled, “Nature has an incredible way of healing and rebounding.” I think the same is true of people. 

It was Monday, March 9, 2020, and I was sitting in the basement of the printshop scrolling through emails and news updates on my iPhone. Ink covered my fingertips and stained my skin. I didn’t care. I was still reveling in nostalgia from the weekend. It was one of the best weekends of my life. It sounds cliché, but it’s the truth. I lived for the New York art fairs! The Armory Show, SPRING/BREAK, VOLTA, Moving Image— I looked forward to the spring shows every year. The day before, I toured Art on Paper at Pier 36 in the LES. A friend had given me VIP tickets. 

I met up with friends later in the afternoon. We drank coffee and walked along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. We discussed the art world, our pets, our families, and our careers. We joked about our exes and thought about the nuances of life. It was sunny and warm for a New York day in early March. I held their baby close to my chest as we walked. I was entirely ignorant of her world and to how soon the scope of her world— and our world— would change. 

“Fuck,” I mouthed to myself. BREAKING NEWS: Several East Coast Universities Cancel Classes in Coronavirus Response. I put my phone down on my lap and buried my face in my ink-stained hands.  

The printshop smelled of paint thinners and chemicals. The air was dank. I was starting to feel nauseated from the fumes. What did it mean that colleges all around the city were canceling classes? Was this the beginning of a lockdown? No, they’re just following protocol, I thought. This is temporary. 

I stood up to stretch, and to get back to work. I put my phone in my back pocket and headed up the stairs. At that moment, my phone vibrated with a text message from my husband, Matthew: 

“Our lab is closing, indefinitely. I have an hour to pack up my office and leave the building.”

Indefinitely sounded exaggerated. I was sure he meant a week or two—at least I had hoped it wouldn’t be longer than that. Our apartment was already crowded enough. 

I looked around the printshop, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. Everyone had gone home for the day. It occurred to me that maybe the printshop would also close. In which case, I would have to call my students to postpone our sessions for a few weeks. Maybe I should head home, I thought. My throat was itchy and I had developed a mild cough, on top of chemically-provoked nausea. Allergies. Yes, that is it—allergies. I always get a bit of a cough when the seasons change.

Later that night, I texted my cousins to ask if anyone had heard from our extended family in Bari, Italy. 

Two days later, I noticed my cough was getting worse. It was allergies— and maybe stress. I had convinced myself of that. 

“Julia, you should really call your doctor,” said my friend with the baby. 

My dog and I were walking around Prospect Park when she called. I was happy to hear her voice, despite her concerns about my health. Should I call my doctor? No, I’m fine, I thought. I’ll pick up cough syrup in the morning. Maybe if I tell her I’m drinking cough syrup then she’ll stop worrying about me.  

The next day I walked to the bodega on 8th Avenue and asked the owner if she had any cough syrup. I was too focused on her breath to hear her words. I could feel it circle in the air. I pictured infected and microscopic droplets touching my face. My heart began to race as the panic set in. I stepped back, thanked her anyway, and wished her a good day. I’ve always liked her. 

I called my doctor from the corner of 7th Ave., outside of the fourth bodega of the day. I assured him I didn’t have COVID but I really needed cough syrup. I couldn’t find it anywhere. The hoarders of Park Slope had planned for this. He addressed me gently as if I were about to receive life-altering news. He ignored my self-diagnosis of allergies and recommended that I pick up the prescriptions immediately and take them as directed until the bottles ran out. He also suggested that I self-quarantine and use an inhaler—“just in case.” We both knew that getting a COVID test was a nearly impossible feat. 

The next day, word got around that some of my colleagues were sick with COVID-like symptoms. It’s a good thing I was laid off, I thought. Matthew and I were going over our finances. I could tell he was stressed. He assured me his job was secure but I was skeptical. We both knew that my loss of income would drain our savings. In times of skepticism and uncertainty, I’ve found that it’s helpful to make lists of gratitudes and to recite them as mantras. 

We are safe. We are healthy. We are blessed.  

New worries involving probable state mandates and rumors of forced isolation began to culminate in the media. Fears of de Blasio shuttering the bridges and quarantining the city were circulating and had reached the ears of most New Yorkers. Upon learning this news, Matthew decided we should shelter in place with his family, in a small suburb north of Boston. We would share his mother’s one-bedroom apartment. He decided that we would sleep on the floor, and I would work on my art in her living room. 

I refused. Brooklyn was my home. If the virus was going to ravage and decimate the city for a few weeks, or maybe a month, I would be there to see it through. This couldn’t last forever, could it?

The disagreement continued for hours. 

Cigarette butts began to collect in a defaced olive jar on our back porch. Throughout the week, I reminded Matthew that the CDC recognized smokers as “high-risk” and vulnerable to respiratory illnesses. “You really need to take Chantix,” I said. 

My friend with the baby told me to go easy on him. “This is a stressful time for everyone,” she said. 

 I had convinced myself that this was all temporary. I would take this time to work in my studio and continue developing my visual arts practice. If I am forced to stay in Brooklyn, I should at least be productive, I thought. This can’t last forever. I will be back at work soon enough. 

That day I sat in my studio, surrounded by my work, and cried. My art, which is largely autobiographical, was not important. People were dying.

 The laundromat that I had used regularly for two years was closed. I worried about the owners, two brothers. I hoped they had closed for personal reasons unrelated to the pandemic. Our Federal Government has failed to protect essential workers, I thought. 

. . .

It was April 12, Easter Sunday. This day means everything to my family but nothing to me. I walked home from my art studio, up to 18th street to 7th Ave. A cop rode past on a motorcycle, slowing down at the four-way stop. He flashed his lights to stop the cars approaching him. Behind him was a black Cadillac hearse with a purple flag that read funeral. There was no congregation of mourning family; no church bells; no priest. The body would likely be buried alone. I wondered if the unlucky person passed away in isolation. I imagined that the body inside of the hearse belonged to an older man— a man with a bald head and a full beard. I prayed for his soul to reach others, somewhere in another realm, far away from Brooklyn. 

I called my Dad to wish him a Happy Easter and to tell him that I missed him. Physically, I was healthy, somehow, but mentally, I was slowly falling apart. The isolation, the economic fallout, the burials on Hart Island, the nonstop news updates— COVID was consuming all of my time. It was the first thing I read about in the mornings and the last thing I would consider at night. I was hardly sleeping in those days. Small moments of solitude were infamously interrupted by the sounds of ambulance sirens. 

“Dad, can you hear that?” I asked. The NYPD was looping around the park with a megaphone, blasting prerecorded messages at park-goers to “wear a mask” and “stay at a six-foot distance.”

“This feels like… Communism,” I said. As soon as the word Communism rolled off my tongue, I regretted it. 

“This is not what Communism is like,” said my Dad, apathetic to my misery and inherent privilege. He reminded me that his parents and siblings lived through the Mussolini regime in Bari. My dad was born a year after the war ended. “You kids have it so much better than we did.” 

A month later, police officers arrested a young Black mother at the Atlantic Avenue-Barclays Center Station for not wearing her mask properly. The encounter ended in a violent assault. 

We gave our landlord a 30-day notice on May 1st. Our lease was up and he refused to let us continue renting month-to-month, despite the city’s high-infection rate and the eviction moratorium. Maybe this will be good for us, I thought. Matthew had accepted a job offer in Southern California. 

. . .

The 7:00 pm cheers for medical frontlines and essential workers kept me going. I looked forward to them every night and made an effort not to miss them. But tonight I was cheering quietly. I was carrying home groceries and didn’t want the bags to touch the ground. I listened to the sounds of applause, and the car horns, and the homemade instruments, while consequently walking past the trailer morgues on 7th Ave. Holding my breath, I peered through the gate. The morgue workers were outside. This can only mean one thing, I thought. 

I don’t think I will ever be able to expunge the horror that the images of those trucks brought to the city or me personally. Coming back from that hellscape seemed [and sometimes, still seems] unimaginable. 

It was the end of May and the moving truck had come and gone. We cuddled up in blankets and sleeping bags on the hardwood floor of our apartment. The sounds of police sirens were aggressive, and we heard helicopters circling overhead. We knew they were headed towards Barclays. We laid awake in silence for most of the night. I prayed for the safety of the protestors. 

The next morning we packed up our Jeep and left the city. The dogs were in the back, wedged between suitcases and sleeping bags. We drove over the Verrazano Bridge to Staten Island and through Jersey. I thought about the past few months and all of the loss the city endured. It would take time, maybe years, but the city would heal. Nature has a way of rebounding after wildfires devastate the land; and so would NYC. I would miss Brooklyn and the life I had created, but I was eager to get to California. The state’s economy was in the early stages of reopening and the infection rate in Los Angeles was on the decline.  

Los Angeles has a great art scene, I thought. How delightful it was to be so naïve. 

Art and the City: Public Art Unveils Controversy in the City

By Filed Under: Community, Feature Tagged With: , , ,

Giancarlo Biagi & Jill Burkee-Biagi, Mother Cabrini Memorial (2020), bronze.
Image courtesy of the Office of Governor Andrew Cuomo.

To most, public art may seem innocuous. Art brings vitality to public spaces. It helps districts establish identities, provides artists with income, and boosts local economies by providing sought-after destinations for art lovers. And perhaps more importantly, public art provides an opportune backdrop for tourists and selfie enthusiasts. However, for New Yorkers who are especially inundated with public artworks ranging from historical tablets and monuments in public parks to contemporary works, like Jeff Koon’s colossal Balloon Flower and Jenny Holzer’s impermanent text-based projections, the relationship between the public and art is not always positive.

Public art is rarely considered by art critics to be “good” art. Seldom does it arrive without a myriad of complications. Aside from often being overly symbolic or kitsch, public art is largely taxpayer-funded, governed by private capital, and decided on by a panel of bureaucrats. 

In 2020, the city planned, commissioned, and installed dozens of public sculptures, installations, murals, and artworks. Below are three of the most recent public sculptures to be unveiled, all of which were met with varying degrees of controversy.

Mother Cabrini Memorial 

Giancarlo Biagi & Jill Burkee-Biagi (2020) 

A bronze and granite memorial honoring the life and service of St. Francis Xavier Cabrini, the Patron Saint of Immigrants, was recently erected in Manhattan’s Battery Park City. Cabrini, more commonly referred to as Mother Cabrini, an Italian immigrant and devoted public servant, founded over 60 schools, orphanages, and hospitals, including numerous academic and health care institutions in New York City. She was the first naturalized American to be canonized by the Roman Catholic Church, nearly three decades after her death. Although Cabrini’s legacy parallels the valor and perseverance of many immigrant communities, the memorial was heavily disputed by the public and follows a contentious stint of bureaucratic conflict between New York’s city and state governments. 

“We are all immigrants in one way or another. We all share the immigrant experience,” said Italian-American artist, Giancarlo Biagi in an interview.

Biagi and collaborator, Jill Burkee-Biagi, were selected by the Governor Cuomo-appointed commission to complete the Cabrini memorial—budgeted at $750,000— in a remarkable nine months. The life-size bronze monument atop a marble base depicts a young Cabrini and two small children in a paper boat, gazing ahead into a distant future. It stands erect in a cove along the esplanade and against a backdrop of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. The commemorative memorial is filled with metaphor, perpetuating collective immigrant experiences of hope and new horizons, while also containing small anecdotes of Cabrini’s mortality. The plaza is surrounded by mosaic, created from bits of riverbed stone near Cabrini’s birthplace in Sant’Angelo Lodigiano. The memorial was unveiled on Columbus Day and dedicated by the New York Governor. 

The controversy of the Cabrini memorial—as with most memorials—lies within the boundaries of taxpayer-funded public art, the site-specificity of the artwork, and how the overall content and design are determined. In 2018, First Lady Chirlane McCray, Deputy Mayor Alicia Glen, and the Department of Cultural Affairs announced the She Built NYC initiative, a project focused on funding public monuments and artworks to honor women’s history. The initiative builds on the recommendations of the Mayoral Advisory Commission on City Art, Monuments, and Markers— a commission that advises the NYC Mayor on issues surrounding public artworks and markers on City-owned property. An advisory panel, appointed by the de Blasio Administration, was founded to oversee the commission of large-scale commemorative statues of revolutionary women— including women of color, trans women, and non-binary individuals— to address the disparate gender imbalances in public spaces. The Department of Cultural Affairs committed to a budget of up to $10 million over the next four years. 

The She Built NYC initiative, spearheaded by McCray, accepted public nominations via an online survey, receiving close to 2,000 responses in total. Although the submissions overwhelmingly favored a memorial honoring the legacy of Mother Cabrini, the panel disregarded the majority, sparking outrage among Italian-American and Catholic communities. In response to the outcry, the governor announced his administration’s plans to work with local Italian-American groups and the Diocese of Brooklyn to oversee the creation of a state-funded memorial to Cabrini. 

The pandemic has indefinitely shelved the She Built NYC project.  

Italian-American and Catholic communities applauded the decision to erect the Cabrini monument, however residents of the southernmost district of Manhattan disapproved— arguing that Cabrini had little involvement with the region. The Mother Cabrini Memorial Commission was able to bypass political disputes and reject public concerns for building the monument in Battery Park City— an area that is owned and controlled by a state corporation. In the long-term, taxpayers and residents of Battery Park City will continue to pay upkeep on an ever-increasing collection of public artworks, jointly valued at $63 million. 

Ruth Bader Ginsburg Memorial 

Gillie & Marc (forthcoming)
Gillie & Marc, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg Memorial (forthcoming), bronze. Image courtesy of the artists.

The nation is still mourning the untimely death of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The announcement of her death, less than two months before the divisive 2020 election, was met with an outpouring of public grief for the beloved civil rights attorney and gender equality advocate. On the steps of the Supreme Court building in DC, mourners left makeshift memorials with handwritten notes, flower bouquets, and votive candles; public gatherings and candle-lit vigils were held in cities all over the country. The following day, Governor Andrew Cuomo announced in a tweet that the state plans to honor the life and legacy of Justice Ginsburg by erecting a permanent statue in her native Brooklyn. 

Less than a month later, the governor appointed a 23-member commission to oversee the design and location of the memorial, including members of Ginsburg’s family. NYC Mayor Bill de Blasio also announced plans to rename the Brooklyn Municipal Building in honor of the late Justice.

Officials at City Point, a residential and commercial development in Brooklyn’s metropolitan center, said that the monument will be unveiled on March 15, 2021, coinciding with both Women’s History Month and Justice Ginsburg’s 88th birthday. The bronze statue, created by artist duo Gillie and Marc, was originally built in partnership with Statues for Equality, whose initiative aims to balance the gender, racial, and ethnic disparities of public sculpture. The artists believe that installing statues of women in public spaces are major steps forward in the long-overdue fight for gender representation. 

Unlike the Mother Cabrini memorial, New Yorkers have mostly welcomed the forthcoming and permanent iconic statue of Justice Ginsburg. There has been little, if any, protest from the public regarding the budget of the memorial or upkeep. However, some in the art world wonder if the traditional solution of building a larger-than-life statue atop a pedestal is the best approach to memorializing the legacy of the adored American figure. Jerry Saltz, Senior Art Critic for New York Magazine, attributes “bad” and “generic” public sculpture to the bureaucratic systems that have long dictated public art— including the commissions composed of politicians, life-long political advisors, architects, and real-estate developers.

“One way to avoid this,” Saltz said, “is to, first of all, get a group of women together. I think you do not want the governor and another batch of male-whatever-politicians big-fucking-footing this thing around. [They should] just shut up and listen. Because to me, the monument to Ginsburg is not only a monument to Ginsburg; it is a monument to one of the greatest liberation movements in this country, which of course is feminism.”

Medusa with the Head of Perseus 

Luciano Garbati (2008-2020)
Luciano Garbati, Medusa with the Head of Perseus (2008-2020), bronze. Image courtesy of the MWTH Project.

One of the most controversial public sculptures of recent memory is Luciano Garbati’s, Medusa with the Head of Perseus. The seven-foot bronze sculpture of an unclothed Medusa reimagines the Greek myth by shifting the narrative of the myth to the perspective of Medusa while positioning the physical sculpture in the context of the #MeToo movement. Smooth and cold to the touch, but resolute and distinguished, Medusa gazes out above a sea of passersby. She is installed in Manhattan’s Collective Park Pond, across from the New York County Criminal Court where the Harvey Weinstein trials commenced. 

The sculpture is inspired by Benvenuto Cellini’s 16th-century bronze masterpiece, Perseus with the Head of Medusa. As Greek Mythology recounts, Medusa was once a beautiful maiden whose appearance was transformed after she was stalked and raped by the sea god, Poseidon in Athena’s temple. As punishment for “breaking” the vow of celibacy, Athena turned Medusa’s hair into a tangle of snakes and cursed her with a gaze powerful enough to petrify men. Perseus, son of Zeus and Danäe, murders Medusa in her sleep. He holds her severed head in an upright, trophy-like position— weaponizing it to turn his enemies to stone. Cellini’s statue and Greek Mythology shame Medusa for being a victim of rape. The Argentine- Italian sculptor’s interpretation, Medusa with the Head of Perseus, flips the context, giving the power back to Medusa and victims of sexual assault. 

At the mid-October unveiling, Garbati spoke of the women who had written to him, viewing the sculpture as catharsis. The artwork, created in 2008, has materialized into an artist-led project first conceived by Bek Andersen, called MWTH (Medusa With The Head – pronounced “myth”). Andersen contacted Garbati after the image went viral. Together, the two applied to NYC Parks’ program, Art in the Parks.

MWTH engages the narrative habits of classical imaginaries of the past, present, and future, and sells miniature replicas and agitprop of Garbati’s, Medusa. A small portion of the proceeds goes to the National Women’s Law Center.

Although the sculpture reimagines the myth by shifting the power to women—an act that is seemingly well-intentioned and fits into the narrative of feminist ideals— the artwork has been met with a deluge of controversy. For one, the sculpture predates the birth of the #MeToo movement by nearly a decade. Secondly, #MeToo was created by Tarana J. Burke, a Black activist from the Bronx. In a post, Burke wrote: “This monument may mean something to some folks, but it is NOT representative of the work that we do or anything we stand for.” In Garbati’s vision of Medusa, the Gorgon unrelentingly grips the severed head of Perseus and not the head of Poseidon, her rapist. This may be an act of irrefutable violence but artistically, it is not a radical political act. [Violence in art is nothing new.] The emphasis on violence and revenge in Garbati’s narrative conflicts with the entirety of the #MeToo movement. “This isn’t the kind of symbolism that this Movement needs,” wrote Burke.

The decision to erect Garbati’s Medusa is a classic example of a missed opportunity for minority representation that the City [and the art world] will continue to perpetuate. Instead, the City chose an artwork with a message created by a man, depicting a naked woman with an idealized muscular physique, Euro-centric features, and shaved genitalia. 

A redeeming quality of Medusa with the Head of Perseus is that it is temporary. Until her removal, Medusa will stand indignant, across the street from a criminal courthouse, reminding the public that through millennia women who are sexually assaulted are likely to be blamed. 

The Earth is Life, and the Land is our Home: Lenapehoking and its Original Inhabitants

By Filed Under: Feature, Outside Tagged With: ,

If you live in Brooklyn, there is a decent chance you have been to Prospect Park. It is a natural sanctuary of sweeping vales, luminous ponds, dense woodlands, and dedicated athletes. The urban park embraces socialization, from large family gatherings and cultural celebrations to sponsored festivals and outdoor concerts. It does not separate society by race or class, nor age, gender, or ethnicity.

The land, as it sits today, is accessible year-round and available for people of all demographics to use. The landscape provides a public space for quiet moments of solitude and self-reflection—while providing a refuge from the noise, hustle, grime, and smell of uncollected waste that permeate in the city. For me, the park was where I found comfort during the height of the novel coronavirus pandemic. With the widespread closures of most public spaces, and the condemnation of physical interaction and public gathering, my options for finding connections were limited. Connecting to “nature” was my safest option, even if that meant connecting to the highly stylized and well-manicured topography of Prospect Park. 

“We have a tendency to want to separate our home from inside and outside,” said Hadrien Coumans, after I explained my desire to find a connection to the natural world, rather than connection through physical or civic engagement. Coumans, an adopted member of the White Turkey-Fugate family, is the co-founder and co-director of the Manhattan-based cultural organization, the Lenape Center. “The reality is that we are completely inside of our home, even when we think we are outside of our home. The earth is life, and the land is our home.” Coumans paused for a few moments before adding: “This—the reality that you’re describing— is what the Lenape people have always been acutely aware of.” 

Historical tablets, erected monuments, triumphal arches, and public artworks are dispersed throughout Prospect Park’s 585-acre oasis, honoring the people and events that have shaped and cultivated the city and community. But the history of Prospect Park—as well as the history of New York City and largely, North America—is complex. For centuries, history has been negotiated, slanted, and erased. A subtle reminder of the area’s indigenous people recently became visible. A handmade Lenape-themed placard, acknowledging rightful land-ownership, is pasted to a bronze and granite marker, commemorating Battle Pass. 

Long before European colonization, revolutionary battles, and the reshaping of Prospect Park’s rugged topography, lived the Lenape, part of the Algonquin nation, and Lenapehoking, the land they occupied. The Lenape, also called Lenni-Lenape—translating to “Original People” and later renamed by European colonizers to Delaware— are a loosely organized band of Native Americans whose tribal roots have sunk deep into the landscape of today’s New York City for more than 10,000 years. The ancestral land of Lenapehoking spans from eastern Pennsylvania to a small part of western Connecticut, and from the Hudson Valley to northern Delaware. Manahatta island meaning “hilly island,” known today as Manhattan, is at the crux of Lenapehoking. Although the Lenape are remembered for being tenacious warriors, they are also regarded for being peacemakers, earning the title of “Grandfather” tribe.  

The Lenape’s origin story begins when a great tortoise, symbolic of the earth, rose from the water and became dry. A tree grew in the middle of the earth, and brought forth a man and later a woman. The phratry clans of the Lenape, which traced their descent through the female line, included three tribal divisions determined by language and location: Wolf (Munsee), Turtle (Unami), and Turkey (Unalachtigo). As a nomadic hunter-gather society, the ancestral Lenape heavily depended on the prosperity of the land. Every ten to twelve years, after depleting the geographical location of its natural resources, the entire village would migrate to a neighboring area of Lenapehoking. Thus, allowing the land to replenish itself for future generations. 

European explorers arrived in the 16th century, with Italian explorer, Giovanni da Verrazano, leading the sail into the New York Harbor. According to some historical records, the Lenape, at first, welcomed the European explorers. They shared the land and resources and soon embraced the act of trade. By the 17th century, European corporations, including the Dutch West India Company, had materialized on the wealth of Lenapehoking and exploited the indigenous peoples. They entered into deceptive land deals, and in 1626, the Lenape “sold” the island of Manahatta to the Dutch. The concept of land-ownership was foreign to the Lenape, who believed that the earth and all of its inhabitants could only belong to the Creator. This particular land transaction, enforced with a constructed barrier wall around “New Amsterdam,” marked the downfall of Lenape society and the beginning of the diaspora. Traditional life for the Lenape was interrupted by the loss of land and the expansion of trade, creating a dependence on over-hunting and leading to a scarcity of resources and cultural value. The colonizers, bringing with them an array of deadly diseases, treated the Lenape as if they were uncivilized and disposable. They devastated the Lenape’s cultural identity and ancestral grounds through cultural assimilation —including involuntary Christian indoctrination— warfare, genocide, illegal land trades, and forced migration. Some accounts suggest that by 1750, the Lenape lost an estimated 90% of its people. The remaining Lenape succumbed to displacement, traveling west to current-day Ohio, and north to today’s New York State and Canada. 

While the Lenape are credited with influencing the history and geography of present-day New York City and surrounding areas, an intentional banishing of their identity —perpetuated by centuries of cultural whitewashing, forced removal, and genocide—have conspired to erase public knowledge of the tribe and their long presence with the ancestral homeland. 

“The erasure has caused a void, particularly to public knowledge and the understanding of the Lenape people,” said Hadrien Coumans. “Until recently, there was no consciousness of recognition that was recognizable.” 

Over a decade ago, Coumans was standing with Joe Baker, member of the federally recognized tribe, Delaware Tribe of Indians, on the Upper East Side. As the two men gazed out onto their ancestral homeland, they experienced a collective and ominous feeling that the Lenape people were facing permanent erasure from public memory. Coumans and Baker pondered how they could preserve their cultural identity and homeland for future generations. 

“We wanted to create a center that would continue our presence and be a welcoming home for the diaspora,” said Coumans. “This experience led to an urgency to continue the Lenape culture and identity.” Consequently, in 2008, the Lenape Center was born. 

The mission of the Lenape Center is to continue the culture of the Lenape and Lenapehoking through the arts, humanities, and environmental conservancy. Bringing public awareness of the Lenape presence to mainstream culture enables descendants of the diaspora to fight back against centuries of exploitation, manipulation, and erasure. Their work includes planting indigenous corn in community gardens; convening with the Brooklyn Museum to create a permanent art installation; staging an opera on the Lenape perspective of the historically misrepresented purchase of Manahatta; consulting with the architects of Tammany Hall’s turtle shell dome— symbolic of the Lenape origin story and Chief Tamanend—and an “iconic anchor to Union Square”; and finally, the organization seeks to return the “presence of consciousness” to the homeland by establishing government-to-government relations, including access to New York City’s resources, and a Living Land Acknowledgement. The acknowledgment, usually in the form of a public statement or plaque, is a simple gesture of respectfully bringing awareness and true inclusion to the indigenous inhabitants that have been deprived of their ancestral homeland and territories. Many of these territories are now occupied by physical institutions, including venues, real estate developments, schools, conference centers, stadiums, and places of worship. A Living Land Acknowledgement also attempts to correct racism— including the indigenous caricature embedded in the New York City seal— and the practices that, for centuries, have contributed to the erasure of the native people’s history, culture, and identity. 

As of today, two commemorative memorials exist in New York City, acknowledging the legacy of the Lenape. Both of the memorials contain historical inaccuracies. In recent years, Columbia University dedicated a plaque to honor the Lenape people for occupying the territory of today’s Manhattan, before the colonization of the Americas. 

Present-day descendants of the Lenape are federally recognized as “Delaware” and include members of Delaware Nation, Delaware Tribe of Indians, and Stockbridge-Munsee Community.  While some smaller bands of the Lenape descendants still live in the NYC and the Northeast, many of the Lenape/ Delaware live in one of the five sovereign nations with full federal recognition, including one nation in Wisconsin, two in Oklahoma, and two in Ontario, Canada. 

In March, when the pandemic hit New York City and much of the country, the Lenape Center decided to indefinitely cancel all public events. “This is a time to hibernate not a time to gather,” said Coumans. He noted that the Center’s virtual meetings and ongoing events, including the production of a documentary on indigenous corn, have been well received. 

I asked Coumans about the connection between environmentalism and the novel coronavirus pandemic. I wondered if he believed there was, if any, a silver lining to the disruption and widespread devastation that New York City has faced.  

“Well,” said Coumans, “the reality is that Lenapehoking or not, we cannot exist without trees or water or oxygen. These are the life-giving properties of the earth. We have to be respectful of nature to breathe fresh air.” He paused before adding: “I do hope the city continues to heal from the pandemic, and that we’ll all come away with a better knowledge of our environment.” 

We recommend that you educate yourself and if interested and able, get involved with the Lenape community. Their website explains more about the history and influence of the original “Brooklyn” people.

www.thelenapecenter.com

Editor’s note: In recent months, as nationwide protests against racial injustices and weaponized police violence have swept our country, we have seen a historic push to acknowledge the complexities of the past and to include the —often negotiated and intentionally erased—truths that affect our present. 

When I first became aware of the Lenape-themed placard atop the bronze and granite Battle Pass monument, I was immediately reminded of the brazen distortions, nods to conspiracies, arrogant lies sold as irrefutable truths, and chants of greatness, all touted by President Trump. But for one to see our country as great means that we have to side with the version of history written on the Battle Pass plaque, and not with the history of the Lenape-themed card. When we question the actions of the past, to better understand the truth, we are reminded that the definition of great is conditional and tethered to a reality that has been slanted. The pasted Lenape-themed placard juxtaposed the Battle Pass marker underscores the thickness of Brooklyn’s history while bringing into our collective consciousness the indigenous nations that New York City has long overlooked.