Park Slope Life

I first meet the Anna Carapetyan on the phone, although, I’m pretty sure we were either related, married, or ruling a huge country in a past lifetime, sans colonialism. She is a Brooklyn Doula, I am a writer, and we have a lot in common, and I mean A LOT. For starters, we are both mothers. Anna is a mother to two small children, ages 7 and 3. I am a mother to three small children, ages 7, 5, and 3. We both graduated high school the same year. Our birthdays are almost numerically identical. Also, we have the same first name! As these details begin to unfold during two deep conversations, I feel the need to rip off all my clothes and yell “This is amazing!” to the sky but I don’t want to scare my new friend. And besides, the most common detail Anna and I have in common are none of these witchy coincidences. Instead, what we connected on the most was the idea of the internal self and how it relates to the “befores” and the “afters” of motherhood. Or, as Anna puts it: “The loud voice of our past versus the wise woman ahead, who’s there, but she’s very quiet. We must lean in to hear her.” I know, I know, why didn’t we all marry this woman?

I call Anna on a warm Wednesday afternoon. Her voice matches the weather. She’s kind and open, the way only seasoned women who have frequently stood in a room at the precipice of life and death can be. If there is fear or anxiety about our interview, I can’t tell. Anna exudes a sense of comfort and grace. So, it makes sense that when I ask her about her background, how she became a doula, and what led her to where she is now, her story unfolds the way a secret note might. Anna’s journey has depth and I have a desire to hear what she has to say again and again. I want to catch her wisdom in my hand and so we begin: 

Me:

It’s so nice to meet you, thank you for agreeing to do this over the phone. So, I guess I’ll start with where are you from and what sparked your interest in becoming a doula?

Anna C.: 

I’m originally from Austin, Texas but I graduated high school in 1999 and then I went to SUNY Purchase where I studied dance. I was a professional dancer after college, and I also babysat and waited tables to make extra money. The human body, healthcare, and even self-care was the initial spark for me in terms of becoming a doula. Birth always held an interest for me, the process of birthing another human being. 

Me:

Did you know immediately that you wanted to be a doula because of this interest in birthing another human?

Anna C.:

No, not really. I mean, I thought I wanted to be a midwife first because a lot of my friends started having children in their late 20s and so I really thought a lot about becoming a midwife.

Me:

So, you were drawn to the process when you saw all your friends having babies and something changed in you, or was it also something else?

Anna C.: 

Well, I mean, initially yes, I saw my friends having kids and this idea of the “event” of how a body comes out of a body really drew me in. The health process and the “body-event” of birth was also somewhat related to my dance background. But the physiological and anatomical event of how a body comes out of a body held and still holds a huge fascination for me.

Me:

I mean, I don’t know if you feel this way but after I had kids, I understood why the whole world is afraid of women. 

Anna C.:

That’s so interesting, what do you mean by that?

Me:

I mean, I felt like I could have played in the NFL the day I birthed my children, and I absolutely could have won. Move over Tom Brady! The strength I felt. It’s sort of beautiful and depressing but I felt like that day was the first day in my whole life as a woman when I truly loved myself, all of myself, and I could see how magnificent I was as a being on this planet. And then there’s this idea of who I was before that moment forever changed me, and who I am now, and maybe who I am going to be.

Anna C.:

This is so amazing because I think a lot about that. I think so often about the woman I used to be versus the wise woman I am continuing to grow into. There is the loud voice of our past versus the wise woman ahead, who’s there, but she’s very quiet. We must lean in to hear her. I often think that the voice of the past is so loud it is drowning out the future self’s voice. Some days it is so difficult to grapple with these two selves.

Me:

Can I stay on the phone with you for the rest of my life!?!? Yes! But those two selves are so necessary, one can’t exist without the other.

Anna C.:

Oh, absolutely. And my experience as a doula before and after my experience as a mother has changed drastically. 

Me:

How so?

Anna C.:

Well, I did first time doula work for three years. I trained as a doula, got certified, and then I worked for three years. But when I birthed my own baby, I had more of a foundational understanding of what it means to birth a child. 

Me:

What changed specifically?

Anna C.: There was just a significant shift from being almost passive about the birthing process to being truly connected to it as well as truly connected to the post-partum process.

The next time I meet Anna, it’s on a muggy Monday in Park Slope. We meet at Bank Street coffee on Flatbush Avenue, and I spot Anna first because she’s got a cute pixie haircut, a flowy skirt, and an aqua blue button down on. But what I really notice is how she’s holding a huge backpack like a newborn. “There’s my Brooklyn doula!” I say while crossing Flatbush to meet her. We’re waving to each other already, our hands like four S.O.S. flags of motherhood in the distance. For some reason, my children and Anna’s children had separate meltdown mornings at home before our meeting. I wonder if it’s too early for tequila, but we settle on cappuccinos and ease into our seats as the barista foams our milk. My before-self sneaks up on me and I picture the two of us as eighth graders with side ponytails chewing bubble gum and making lanyard friendship bracelets. But here we are in the present moment, exhausted mothers, wise women of the Brooklyn village. Today our coffee talk begins with what it’s like raising children in Brooklyn, how to deal with meltdowns, and how hard we are on ourselves, the difficulties of forgiving ourselves, and what it means to fall apart. Today, we’re both at the tail end of that list. 

Anna C.: It’s been a rough morning. 

Me: Yeah, I totally get it. This is a nice coffee shop.

Anna C.: It is, I like it here. 

Me: Ok, so the last time we spoke we talked a lot about what it means to step into this new self. I think one of the challenges for me is that I’ve had a few moments since birthing my children when I really feel like I am falling apart. 

Anna C.: Oh, absolutely. I had a morning like that today. Especially during and after the pandemic, the “falling apart” can take on many meanings.

Me: It can. I’m sure you and I had similar experiences with having a baby right before the pandemic hit. Can you tell me about that and about where you’re headed in terms of your practice?

Anna C.: Well, it’s interesting, when my youngest was born we moved away. We drove to Texas, and I did fall apart. Yet, it was a productive falling apart. 

Me: In what way?

Anna C.: Well, I started to realize some things about what we experience internally after birth. It’s like what makes it hard is so different from what makes it hard. I don’t know if that makes sense when I say it but it’s true. I’ll say it again. What makes this experience hard is so different from what makes this experience hard.

Me: The internal experience is always so difficult to explain. I went back to work two weeks after my youngest was born because I had to make a living. Now that sounds crazy, but I had tunnel vision and I think my body has suffered tremendously because I did that. I’m just now, at 42, after three children, learning to listen to my body.

Anna C.: There is absolutely an internal experience, and that goes from internal self to the identity shift we were talking about last time. There is a former self we shed, and a shift to a social self and all these factors taking place. But it can also be a moment of self-discovery. After I had my productive falling apart, I realized that as a doula, I’m not just a “doer”, I actually have something to say. I have something important to say. 

Me: What is it that you have to say?

Anna C.: So much, where do I begin? I’d like to start with the question of why is this internal experience a problem? What is challenging for people with these internal experiences and how can I facilitate an easier path for them post-birth, early-birth, even after the first year of motherhood. How can we find and learn to express what is happening inside of ourselves even into our children’s toddlerhood? Some women are also experiencing perimenopause and post-partum around the same time. 

Me: I think I’m going through that. I had no idea that post-partum can last for three years.

Anna C.: Yeah, oh yeah. They’ve discovered a lot of new research about that.

Me: I fell apart much later, after my third child. During the pandemic it was easy for me to hunker down with the kids. Coming back out into the world has been the hardest thing for me and you’re right, I have no way to express what is going on inside of me. 

Anna C.: Those internal experiences that we don’t quite have words for are the reason I have a lot to say. I think the need for a deeper kind of care even after the newborn stage is crucial after birth. 

Me: Care for the mother?

Anna C.: Yes, for the mother, but also for the mother and child, and family as a whole. We all need care. The whole family. 

Me: We do.

Anna C.: We really do.

I talked to Anna for two hours. It was like sitting on a cabin porch with a knitted quilt wrapped around me. Later, I stalked her Instagram and found the real gold nuggets of her practice. In a world of insecurity, anxiety, and fear, Anna Carapetyan reminds us through her own experiences of the fragility and sacred nature of life. To care for ourselves, all of ourselves, and to care for our children while caring for ourselves truly takes a village. I close her Instagram page after I read the one post I was meant to linger with. It is a video of Anna speaking to the camera after a back injury. Even in her own pain she guides us as she speaks:

When we’re recovering from birth, illness, injury, pregnancy loss or termination, going through a grief process or other life event that necessitates the support of family and community, we learn about our comfort and our edges.

It can be hard to allow people to care for us. When it is hard, it’s also an opportunity for growth.

There’s a point in the process when the opportunity is especially alive.

It’s not when the pain or the learning is most acute and claiming the majority of our attention. It’s usually pretty easy to accept support then.

Birth parents I work with will usually let me spoon feed them their first meal after birth, but a week later it’s much harder to get them to allow me to heat up a meal or bring a snack to their bedside.

It’s when we’re feeling just strong enough to get up and go through the house picking up laundry we’ve strewn about or stand at the stove heating up our own soup.

*It’s when we know we could do those things but it would cost us energy that could otherwise be used for further recovery and re-building.*

Nothing compares to the classic gift of a beautiful fresh flower bouquet. Whether for a birthday, anniversary, or “just because” flowers are a sure way to brighten up a room and bring a smile to your face. No one in Brooklyn knows this better than at Zuzu’s Petals flower shop.

Zuzu’s Petals has been sending flowers to loved one’s for over 50 years. Opened in 1971 as simply a plant shop, Zuzu’s has grown guided by owner Fonda Sarah’s leadership to become a Park Slope shopping staple. On July 27, 2023, The Assembly State of New York welcomed Zuzu’s Petals into the New York State Historical Business Preservation Registry. They recognized Zuzu’s for its outstanding contribution to their beloved neighborhood.

“I love growing things. I have a physical reaction to beautiful flowers and well-grown plants,” gushes Fonda reflecting on her favorite aspects of owning the business. “I have great affection for many of the people who have worked with me over the years and used the experience to grow into something they love doing.”

The New York State Historical Business Preservation Registry (HBPR) was established by Chapter 241 of the Laws of 2020, sponsored by Senator Jose Serrano and Assemblymember Daniel O’Donnell. It is a non-competitive nomination-based program, in which businesses are nominated by elected state officials including the Governor, Lieutenant Governor, and members of the Senate or Assembly. HBPR states, “The program is administered by the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation & Historic Preservation and highlights businesses that have been in operation for at least 50 years and have contributed to their community’s history. At a time when many businesses face new and unique challenges, this registry allows us to recognize and honor historic businesses, while providing educational and promotional assistance to ensure their continued viability and success.”

Some other Brooklyn businesses currently in the registry include Sahadi Importing Company, JoMart Chocolates, and Kellogg’s Diner.

Now added to this titular list is the beautiful and friendly flower shop located in the heart of Park Slope. The HBPR proclamation event was hosted at the 5th Avenue storefront as assemblymembers, coworkers, friends, and loyal customers gathered to celebrate and support the years of accomplishments achieved by Fonda and her ever-evolving team of Zuzu’s.

State assemblymembers proclaimed, “Whereas Zuzu’s Petals opened its doors in Park Slope in 1971, and soon became a neighborhood institution by bringing the beauty and artistry of flowers to everything from weddings and birthdays to holidays and everyday life of generations of Park Slope residents; and Whereas Zuzu’s Petals has been a successful woman-owned business for all these decades and makes a special contribution to the culture and fabric of the Park Slope community; and Whereas Zuzu’s Petals is deeply rooted in Park Slope and will continue to delight and inspire its many customers for generations.”

Named from the classic Christmas film, It’s A Wonderful Life, Zuzu’s Petals offers personalized fresh flower bouquets, custom delivery arrangements, and a retail space filled with gifts and houseplants. In the summer months, they have a backyard nursery of garden flowers and plants. Fonda has kept this community-oriented feel alive through her personal, thoughtful, and hands-on approach to customer service, staff management, and flower design. True care and heart goes into the work of each and every flower arrangement that leaves the store.

Zuzu’s see flowers as a universal gift of connection, appreciation, and friendship for all your loved ones. One floral designer remarks, “I most enjoy the experience of helping someone pick out flowers knowing they are a gift for a particular person. Thinking about what the other person will like. It’s more than just selling a random product at a store, it’s creating individual pieces of art that will be gifted at a special moment in their life.”

When you visit Zuzu’s you are welcomed to a large fresh-cut flower bar. Blooms from ranunculus, sunflowers, and anemones, to hydrangeas, anthurium, and delphinum. And, of course, a gorgeous color selection of roses. They even receive locally grown stems from upstate flower farms, like camomile, cornflower, and teddybear sunflowers. The talented team of designers will assist you in choosing and arranging a unique selection perfect for you.

Almost all of the store’s flower stock is carefully hand-selected by Fonda from the NYC Flower Market. For all these years, Fonda has visited the flower market, located on 28th St in Manhattan, no later than 5 AM to pick out the most beautiful seasonal flower bundles.

“The wholesale flower market was multi-generational families…all men. There was a culture of gambling and drinking mixed in with a heavy dose of sexism…but I found my people and they taught me what to buy and how much to pay,” says Fonda remembering being a self-taught young woman entering the business. Today her strong and positive relationships at the market have earned Zuzu’s a reputation for unique, lasting, and exceptional quality flowers.

Longtime Park Slope residents may remember shopping at Zuzu’s Petals at its original location on 7th Ave. “For 2 years, I managed the shop (which only sold plants) [previously called Growing Things] and bought it in August 1974. The day after I bought the business another plant store moved into our former space a block away and within a year another one opened around the corner. Competition was a challenge, but I eventually outlasted both of them,” tells Fonda. During those early days, Fonda worked 7 days a week with only one employee. She went to a greenhouse retailer in New Jersey every week for the store stock. “These growers raised and hybridized their varieties. It was like shopping in a museum. People were seriously into collecting plants as a hobby. And then, plants were being grown and shipped up from Florida. They were crap but cheap and that killed the market for quality.”

Because of this Fonda pivoted to selling cut stems. This major transition has guided Zuzu’s to where it is today. “I have learned how to successfully buy and sell growing things. I have always sold quality plants and flowers and educated my customers on their care. I have established a good reputation with my vendors. And I have a deep loyal customer base that I am forever grateful for.”

Tragically, in 2004 a building fire destroyed that store and forced the business to regroup and relocate to 5th Avenue. This happened at a time when the slope’s 5th Avenue was not as bustling. Zuzu’s was one of those independent businesses that helped to build up the street into the busy local shopping hub it is today. With the generous support of friends, trusted customers, and neighbors Zuzu’s was able to rebuild and sprout again into a new era at its current storefront.

“The business has been threatened by several economic downturns, destroyed by fire, stalled by Hurricane Sandy, and shut down for the pandemic.” Fonda reflects on other challenges, “Not to mention competition and the internet which totally changed the economic model of bricks-and-mortar independent business. People don’t shop in person for anything they can get online so street traffic as a culture has diminished.”

Yet regular customers continue to stop into Zuzu’s storefront, amused and delighted by the lush green plants, colorful dahlias, and friendly staff. Longtime employee Lorriane expresses her gratitude saying, “We wouldn’t be here without the customers that come back every week all these years.”

Over the years, the business has grown with a beautifully balanced and experienced team of designers; skillfully trained to design bridal bouquets, flower crowns, corsages, centerpieces, and any arrangement you may need. Zuzu’s Petals prides itself on being an independent woman-owned and operated business— valuing quality service, beautiful arrangements, and products that are personal and specialized for each individual. When receiving a bouquet from the shop it’s easy to see the dedication and affection each designer has for their craft.

One such beloved Zuzu’s customer is well-respected funeral director Amy Cunningham of Fitting Tributes. She comments, “Fonda, you’re a phenomenal floral designer and event brainstormer, but perhaps most remarkable as a gifted business owner and staff motivator, seeing your worthy endeavor through lean times and some tough moments. You’ve guided our community through all kinds of milestones. Enjoy this one!!”

On the future of Zuzu’s Fonda simply says, “The shop will continue to grow, adapt, and flourish under the guidance of a new generation of Zuzus.”

Follow Zuzu’s Petals @zuzuspetalsbrooklyn

https://www.zuzuspetalsbrooklyn.com

Learn more about the HBPR: parks.ny.gov/historic-preservation/business-registry

Everyone dreams of living in Brooklyn at some point in their lives. If someone says this isn’t true, they’re lying. The brownstone brick, the tree lines streets, and the tin roofs of coffee shops evoke a sense of wonder.

“Hey Lady, move a little slower why don’t ya, it’s not like I have anywhere to be!”

The man in the Fresh Direct delivery truck turning from 5^th Avenue onto Union Street is most likely my exact age. He’s a dark-haired beauty with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, five o’clock shadow, white t-shirt, and a blue and white trucker hat with red letters across the front that spell out “I PEE IN POOLS”. If I wasn’t holding my three-year-old son’s hand, balancing a tote bag on one shoulder, and trudging along a heavy sack of groceries; if my tits didn’t look like sandbags, if this were twenty-five years ago, I might have smiled. Maybe. We might have exchanged numbers, and I would have absolutely bought a matching hat in pink. But because I’m tired, and middle-aged, and a mother, and mostly because I’m from Brooklyn, I shift the shopping bag from my hand to my wrist so that I can flag my middle finger in this guy’s face. 

“Sit on it and rotate, asshole,” I yell, to which he responds by blowing me a kiss, to which I respond with the typical, smirking, “in your dreams, buddy.” 

It doesn’t matter that some of my hair is gray. Who cares that the brown stain on my sweatshirt from a greasy falafel ball looks like a dirty heart. It doesn’t even really make a difference that my son, trailing alongside me, has his finger all the way inside of his nose almost down to the ashy knuckle. In Brooklyn, I am beautiful, aging backwards like my borough. The man in the Fresh Direct truck is a bonus. He’s my daily reminder that no matter what happens, “I still got it,” even if the “it” that I “got” is a shitty attitude and a lot of confidence. 

Brooklyn exists in a cloud of nostalgia. It is the borough of “before.” It is the county of sentimentality, wistfulness, and the memory of a yesterday we aren’t even sure existed in the first place. Everyone wants a piece. Everyone dreams of living in Brooklyn at some point in their lives. If someone says this isn’t true, they’re lying. The brownstone brick, the tree-lined streets, and the tin roofs of coffee shops evoke a sense of wonder. People who grew up here, or even long-time residents who have made it to Brooklynite status, shamelessly recount tales of “the old days.” The old days are visions of a time when things in Brooklyn were real, original, creative, authentic. In these tales told by Brooklyn elders, life always appear to be better or simpler. The stories often begin with a setting or an unlucky situation. 

“I grew up on President Street. But it was when President Street was really Brooklyn.” Another popular opener is, “One time my dad went to my school with a baseball bat to handle things with the class bully. That was old school. That’s how we dealt with things back then.” Back then. The story unfolds as if there is a lease on time and that part of history never moved past the father’s grip on the bat. In the myths and legends of Brooklyn, store owners know every child’s name on the block, bad guys get dealt with by tough guys, and parents are rarely around, entrusting their children to the peeping eyes of the neighborhood grandmothers who lean out of windows in floral nightgowns and see all. In this way Brooklyn and its people never grow old, even if they are old. In fact, they don’t grow old even if they’re dead. Brooklyn is fiction; the Never Neverland of New York. 

My own story of Brooklyn is broadcast in a similar fashion. When approached by a stranger with the question “where are you from?” my answer is always, “I’m from Brooklyn.” Most of the time, the question that follows is, “no, but originally.” I think the reason for this is that nowadays I look like a midwestern Mom of three who has no clue where I left the keys to my apartment even though they’re in the tie-dye fanny pack attached to my waist. This makes my nostalgic Brooklyn tale even more crucial. “What? What do you mean? I’m from Brooklyn, and my father’s from Brooklyn, and my grandparents came here when they were six! And everyone in my family watched the Brooklyn Dodger games from their roof! Oh, and Coney Island, we went to Coney all the time, and ate hot dogs, and we were happy!” As I scream and rant about the schools I attended, how my mother would take me to the Brooklyn Museum every weekend, how my Dad’s best friend lived on fifteenth off of Prospect Park and got stabbed ten times on his way home one day, I wonder if I am telling the stories to prove something to the listener, or more so to prove something to myself. 

As our own youth disappears, as the reality of the enormity of life shifts into clear view, the stories we tell ourselves, the narratives we save for others, becomes the history of a borough that never wanted to grow up. There are always two Brooklyns simultaneously existing for most of us. For example, when I flip off the Fresh Direct, Bruce Springsteen look-a-like driver, I also feel the past creep up my neck like a whisper from a stranger in a dark bar. “Hey,” the voice says, “tell me something about yourself.” The man in the truck, cigarette falling from full lips, tempts the me from another time. But the reality, the day-to-day is often bleak, and out of this daily bleakness is where the seed of beauty is planted. In a few hours I must pick my two daughters up from school. At five o’clock I have to make dinner. At eight o’clock everyone goes to bed after a bath, and then I get ready for the next day. School, lunch, walking to my Mom’s house to give her a shower because she’s just had hip surgery. More cooking, waiting for my husband’s day off so that I can do everyone’s laundry. Then the stories emerge, erupting out of me, the tales my children will tell to keep the heart of the neighborhood beating forward into tomorrow.

“Mami yells at the drivers on the street,” my seven-year-old has been known to tell her teachers at school. “She gets so mad and then she yells and then they wait for us to cross the street. Also, one time, Mami chased a delivery guy on a bike because he didn’t say excuse me.” Her teachers nod and smile, and at a parent-teacher conference they show me a picture she drew of me running after the cyclist. I laugh because the legends of the Brooklyn mother have already started circulating throughout the grade and on the classroom’s group chat. In Brooklyn, to become a legend, even if only in a small child’s Crayola depiction, is to age backwards, to be frozen in the time of someone else’s memory. To be a part of Brooklyn, to become its concrete, its brownstones, its front stoop chalk games, is to have stories told about you by someone else.

After all, life can be mundane at best, cruel at worst. As the Fresh Direct truck disappears into the distance of Union Street, the grocery bag I am holding rips open halfway down the block. A box of gluten free cookies, a large can of coconut water, an organic dark chocolate bar, three apples, and two ripe bananas roll out onto the sidewalk. “Shit,” I say staring at the pretentious mess in front of me. The spill has me asking myself what version of Brooklyn I am living in now. When historians look back at Brooklyn today, will a sepia photo of me screaming on a street corner holding my son’s hand appear? Will the coffee shops and restaurants have a fuzzy look to them in the textbooks people study?

“Oh man, that sucks,” a teenage boy says as he passes my mess. 

“Yeah, don’t offer to help or anything,” I snap back while shoving the chocolate and coconut water in my tote bag, trying to untangle the ripped plastic shopping bag from the bananas.

“I’m in a rush, lady,” he puts his air pods in so that he doesn’t have to hear me when I answer. 

But it doesn’t matter. I’m already fiction. I’m already aging backwards, a frozen photo still of a woman bending down to pick up her fallen groceries, on the epic, unending streets of Brooklyn.

My fellow Brooklynites, all you fine folk who are not sunbathing in the Hamptons or frolicking at the Jersey Shore at present, I offer to you an assortment of summer city delights hiding in plain sight.

What city-dwellers often love best about summer in the city is, well, escaping it. I’m not going to pretend I don’t agree. Nothing says freedom like speeding down the interstate on a scorching August day, the wind whipping your hair, skyscrapers in your rear-view window. 

Still, for most of us, that long-awaited vacation only comprises a week or so of a long, hot summer, and we’d do well to find contentment in pleasures closer to home. So, my fellow Brooklynites, all you fine folk who are not sunbathing in the Hamptons or frolicking at the Jersey Shore at present, I offer to you an assortment of summer city delights hiding in plain sight.

The First Lick of an Italian Icey.

It’s a dog day in August. The air’s soupy, but a kind of soup you’d never want to eat . . . split pea, maybe. Every part of you is coated with sweat, so you’re sticky, and puffy, too, like a microwaved marshmallow. Because you’re a parent, you’re holding way too many things: your purse, your kid’s backpack, somebody’s half-eaten dumpling, a random Pokemon Christmas ornament likely laden with bedbugs that your kid has insisted on adopting from a FREE STUFF box on the sidewalk. You feel like a camel with no water left in her hump. You are depletion itself. 

But hark! What lies ahead? Is it a mirage, or could it be a pizzeria with an icey freezer out front? Your kid sees it too and clamors for an icey. Though you’ve spent too much money today and they’ve already eaten too many sweets, and just fifteen minutes ago, they were behaving so abominable that you proclaimed, “No dessert all week!” you say, “Sure.” Because you know this icey—and this icey alone—has the power to renew you. 

You order your icey in a squeezy cup because that’s how you always had it as a kid, and it somehow tastes better when the dregs are sucked from a sodden, sticky, folded-up heap in your palm Your order rainbow because you’re no amateur and even though everyone knows it’s just three colors, far from a proper rainbow, it’s plenty close enough. The mirage man behind the freezer releases his scooper into your squeezy cup, packing it down so the shape is that of Bozo the clown’s head—mostly bald with side tufts. 

You don’t even wait to pay before you take the first lick. It is cold and tart and sweet and perfect. It’s the taste of summer. 

The Rush of Cool When You Enter a Subway Car. 

Not to get all “I walked three miles to school barefoot in the snow” on you here, but I will submit for your consideration the fact that subway cars were not all air conditioned until 1993. Maybe this is why I relish the rush of cold air that greets me like a flirty lover when I step onto a subway car in summer. 

And, for the record, it was way more than three miles. 

Dipping Your Feet into the Sprinklers.

I won’t deny it: the sprinkler offers more annoyances than pleasures. All manner of perils lurk in its fetid puddles, from shattered glass to cox sackie. And that’s to say nothing of the accidents bound to happen when hordes of small humans with zero impulse control and piss-poor motor skills get very, very slippery. My son once chipped a tooth when his mouth collided with another child’s forehead. 

But there is a pleasure, small but incontrovertible, in giving yourself over to the sprinkler. You won’t surrender fully to its siren song the way your kids do, and let yourself get drenched, but you’ll dip a proverbial, and literal, toe. Maybe even ten. 

Octogenerians Sitting in Lawn Chairs on the Sidewalk Enjoying the Breeze on a Perfect July Evening.

Because youth may be wasted on the young, but Brooklyn is for everyone. 

The Fat Legs of Babies Wearing Onesies.

I don’t know why we want to eat babies—and I never will, because I just googled, “Why do people want to eat babies?” and let’s just say it was an error in judgment. 

What I do know is that while babies are reasonably cute when bundled in winter garb, they are exponentially more delicious—that is, adorable—in their summer best, plump legs kicking with the kind of unaccountable glee only a baby can manage.

Coney Freaking Island. Absolutely All of It. 

The crinkle fries eaten with a tiny red pitchfork and the Famous Nathan hot dogs that snap! when you sink your teeth in. The dozen competing speakers blasting different music as you walk down the boardwalk. The frozen custard, silky and cool. The brazen seagulls who steal your sandwich, and who, if they could talk, would undoubtedly do so in a Brooklyn accent. The Parachute Drop, which my father used to ride as a little boy, and which looms still, iconic but ornamental. The Wonder Wheel, whose name says it all. 

The sand so dirty you can feel the pathogens coating your feet as you mince over it. And, of course, the ocean. Magnificent. Ruthless. And just right there, in the middle of the greatest city in the world. As if we didn’t have more than our fair share of grandeur already. 

Being called a NIMBY isn’t the worst thing someone can be called. I was part of a group of Gowanus residents called “NIMBY’s” because we challenged the 2021 Gowanus Neighborhood Rezoning Plan. 

We raised concerns that the massive rezoning of 82 blocks in Gowanus was not responsive to local needs, and instead was prioritizing profits for the real estate industry. I outline the context for these concerns in Part 1 of this story, which you can read in the Winter 2023 edition of the Park Slope Reader. 

In this part of the story, I will explore a more personal experience where my own personal NIMBYism was really brought to the surface. While I have been living in Gowanus for almost 20 years, the larger Gowanus rezoning plan I challenged didn’t actually impact my own block. However, more change in Gowanus was soon coming to my own neck of the woods. Even though I was disappointed in the outcome of the larger Gowanus rezoning plan, I was hopeful that the rezoning plan coming to my own block would be better tailored to the unique interests of my area of Gowanus. It’s never that simple, though.

Our block of 8th Street, and the entire swath of Gowanus on the south side of the canal, west of 3rd street, wasn’t included in the larger Gowanus Neighborhood Rezoning Plan. By the start of the recent Gowanus rezoning process, our area was no longer known for rats, sex workers and drugs. Our part of Gowanus was a vibrant community of manufacturers, commercial businesses, and creative spaces, with a handful of residents, like me. The City promised us that the future of our part of Gowanus would be addressed separately, through a process centering on more community engagement. 

The Gowanus Industrial Business Zone (IBZ) Vision Plan, released by NYC in 2021, was the start of that effort. The Gowanus IBZ Vision Plan outlined a plan for increased support for the thriving manufacturing, industrial and creative uses of Gowanus, allowing properties zoned for these uses to expand significantly to meet growing demand largely caused by displacement from Long Island City, Williamsburg, and now, the other side of Gowanus. The Vision Plan also provides for rezoning most of the currently “grandfathered” residential properties; homes like mine would eventually be determined as “conforming use” of the space. Such a change would allow for modest residential development in certain parts of the area, and a commitment to status quo in other parts. 

The promised zoning changes to support local businesses are barely in the infancy stages of development through the City’s bureaucracy. However, in late 2021, just a few months after the larger Gowanus rezoning plan passed the NYC Council, I heard that a neighbor was proposing to rezone 9th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues for residential use. That block of 9th Street is much like my block of 8th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues, with some significant differences. Both blocks are currently zoned for manufacturing use. Both blocks have a dozen or so “grandfathered”, “non-conforming” houses, largely built over a hundred years ago, all before zoning became the law of NYC. Both blocks also have significant and longstanding industrial businesses in busy operation. Both blocks suffer from a rising water table, the threat of storm surges, and the realities of insufficient and archaic sewers. The main difference: our block is largely inhabited by the owners of 1 & 2 family houses, most 2-3 stories tall. That stretch of 9th Street, however, is largely inhabited by renters, many in multiple family buildings up to 4 stories tall. That block of 9th Street is one of the last strongholds of a diminishing local, multi-generational, Puerto Rican and Dominican community in Gowanus. Also, some of the buildings on 9th Street have residents long protected by rent stabilization laws. 

The plan to rezone 9th Street was prompted by the application of a single landowner: the estate of a long-time neighbor who passed away after a very long life. After the death of our dear neighbor, their estate owned 3 contiguous lots on 9th Street, covering 100+ feet of street frontage, used for the last 50+ years as a dirt and gravel parking lot for cars and trucks. The parking lot, literally, borders my backyard. The estate sought to change the zoning of the parking lot to allow for residential development. Such would make the property more valuable than its current zoning for manufacturing uses. However, the estate couldn’t apply to simply rezone their own lots; small rezoning applications, termed “spot zoning”, are frowned upon. 

“Spot zoning” involves rezoning a particular parcel of land for use different from the surrounding area, and usually benefits a single owner. Spot zoning is discouraged, especially in NYC. Instead, zoning changes are supposed to be well-considered and within a comprehensive plan calculated to serve the general welfare of the community. To avoid the “spot zoning” challenges to their rezoning application, the estate expanded their proposal to include all the properties on 9th Street currently used as “grandfathered” residential, “non-conforming use”. 

When I first heard of a plan to rezone 9th Street to residential use, I was fully on board. I welcome a change in zoning to allow long existing residential buildings to finally conform with their uses. I welcome development of more residential units on that block, especially in spaces currently not meeting community needs; I’m not interested in preserving a parking lot in my backyard. 

As the details of the plan were unveiled, my support wavered. The estate was seeking to rezone the entire block of 9th street to allow for “mixed use” manufacturing/commercial ground floor businesses, with 7 story residential developments added on top. This wasn’t a plan to address the “grandfathered” issues related to “non-conforming” uses; IMHO this was a plan to completely change the neighborhood in one fell swoop, and without community input, to maximize individual property value.

I had MANY concerns on the potential impact such development would have on the area, and I wasn’t alone. This proposal threatened the existing residents, largely renters, on 9th Street. This proposal threatened the thriving manufacturing, industrial and creative communities on the same block, and nearby. This proposal threatened to further strain our insufficient sewer and stormwater infrastructure. This proposal would exacerbate the rising water table issues for neighboring properties, like my own. Disappointed in what I see as an attempted “money grab” by my neighbor’s estate, I remained cautiously optimistic; I expected community concerns to be addressed in the bureaucracy of the approval process, and a better plan to be ultimately found.

The Community Board 6 Land Use Committee, sharing the concerns community members brought to their attention during the initial community hearing, overwhelmingly voted to oppose the 9th Street rezoning plan unless there were significant changes. The larger Community Board 6 shockingly ignored the vote of their own Land Use Committee, voting to support the plan with only minor suggested changes. 

The larger Community Board’s vote was centered on the hope that the rezoning plan would bring to market 13 “affordable” housing units, along with 30+ market rate units, under the City’s “Mandatory Inclusionary Housing” program (aka “MIH”). However, there was no acknowledgement that the rezoning proposal did not guarantee development of ANY affordable units. Through the public review process the estate presented a plan for the kind of building they could develop after the rezoning was finalized. The presentation was completely hypothetical. After the rezoning process is completed, the estate could build a completely different project, and easily avoid any MIH requirements. It was shocking to me that the Community Board members could be so naive. I had greater hope for the next phases of the process.

Next up was the Brooklyn Borough President’s hearing and determination. The spirited hearing brought out dozens of community members expressing concerns in opposition to the initial plan including concerns that long-time residents would be forced out, local business operations would be negatively impacted, and the changes would contribute to flooding and sewer problems. The testimony of those in support of the initial 9th Street rezoning plan largely came from those with limited experience, if any, with Gowanus. Such testimony often started with disclaimers like: “I don’t live or work in Gowanus, but I rode my bike on this block the other day” or “I never lived nearby, but I’d like to.” The Brooklyn Borough President’s eventual conditional approval of the plan recommended a reduction in the scope and scale of the proposal. Borough President Reynoso recommended that a number of lots most at risk of storm related flooding be completely removed from the plan. Borough President Reynoso’s plan also recommended that the resulting density in most other lots be reduced to match existing zoning regulations passed about a decade ago covering 9th Street between 3rd and 4th Avenues, with a max height of 5-6 stories; the estate’s parking lot, however, would still be allowed to build to the original plan of 9 stories. While the Borough President’s plan didn’t completely make sense to me, I valued how he showed policymakers can hear various constituent concerns and seek to find common ground that advances competing, yet compelling, interests. 

Next up was consideration from the NYC Department of City Planning (DCP). While awaiting an announcement of the scheduling of the public DCP hearing, community members looking to provide input at all stages of this process, like myself, found out the DCP hearing went forward without appropriate notice to the community or our Councilmember. Therefore, the DCP hearing proceeded without opposition testimony. The real estate developers, however, had inside knowledge of the hearing, and mobilized a handful of their operatives to testify in favor of the proposal. I helped organize the community opposition to provide written testimony to the DCP. Our written testimony included signatures from an online petition of 300 community members. Contrary to Borough President Reynoso’s conditional approval, nor the conditions recommended by the Community Board, the DCP approved the initial proposal, without ANY conditions. 

The NYC DCP was ready to allow the entire stretch of 9th Street to be rezoned to allow 9 story luxury residential development, with no real promise of affordable housing development; they were ready to ignore the environmental impacts of adding hundreds of new units to the overburdened, and under-resourced sewer system; they were ready to ignore the impact the potential displacement of my Puerto-Rican and Dominican neighbors; they were ready to ignore the impact of growing the residential population of a block 10 fold would have on the viability of the local industrial and creative communities. 

Luckily, the DCP is not the final word on rezoning decisions: the NY City Council is. On matters of local rezoning efforts, the City Council largely defers to the position of the City Councilmember from the impacted district. The local community had been working with City Councilmember Shahana Hanif to help her understand our complex concerns. At this point in the process, Councilmember Hanif brought the community members to the table with the rezoning applicant to discuss our concerns and proposed modifications. I was able to explain my concern that the enormous concrete foundation required to build a 9 story building next to my backyard would protect that new structure from the rising groundwater, but that their protection would divert groundwater onto my property threatening the integrity of my less protected stone foundation walls. My business neighbors were able to explain that longtime Gowanus businesses, like moving companies, building contractors, and commercial carting companies work loudly and at odd hours; if the neighborhood suddenly was populated by more residents than businesses, they feared being forced out of the area by complaints and restrictions. And, my other neighbors were able to explain their concern for displacement of local, long-time renters. The applicant was able to explain their interests in developing a long underutilized area property for the benefit of the community.

At the end of this process, Councilmember Hanif was able to successfully negotiate a modification to the original proposal. The final proposal, passed by the New York City Council in October 2022 allows for significant growth in residential development, but a scale less threatening to the environment, local businesses, and current residents. No one is getting everything they wanted, but all of us are satisfied by the outcome. Well, not “everyone”. Real estate developers are not happy; they were already busy buying up other properties on 9th Street, and surrounding blocks, in hopes that another big change in zoning would provide them a financial windfall.

As a result of not getting all they hoped for, the powerful NYC real estate developer community prompted negative news coverage, akin to a hissy fit, with headlines like: ”City Council Moves Forward With Gowanus Rezoning After Slashing Affordable Housing” and “Another Rezoning Gets through, but Housing is Shrunk”. The coverage largely hinges on the claims that the original rezoning proposal would have guaranteed development of affordable housing units under the NYC MIH program. What the coverage neglects to flesh out for the reader are the realities of MIH “requirements”. MIH requirements do not apply to new developments with fewer than 10 units. Under MIH requirements, developers of projects with 11-25 units can choose to pay into a fund, instead of building any “affordable” units. In other words, the original proposal to rezone 9th Street would not have guaranteed any new affordable units to the neighborhood, but would have likely displaced all existing community members, and been disastrous to local businesses and the environment. 

Trying to explain the complicated context of community concern while celebrating the modified plan’s successful passage through the NYC Council, I met with, and talked to, a number of journalists. They all were exposed to the information I share in this piece.The resulting news coverage, and responsive tweeting, paint a very different picture than reality. The coverage portrays me, personally, as a rich, White, NIMBY who doesn’t want affordable housing and/or big buildings in my backyard. Only one journalist, a CUNY student named Rachel Goldman, actually published a piece with integrity. 

Regardless of what the developer-funded papers say, or what their editors tweet about me under pseudonyms, the reality is that I welcome the development of real affordable housing in Gowanus, even in the lot behind my backyard. I also welcome community informed and environmentally responsible development. Bring it all! I’d be happy to be called a YIMBY for a change. 

My middle child, Alma, came on the heels of a miscarriage. Two months after I lost a baby, my daughter appeared on a blurry sonogram screen in a run-down doctor’s office in the heart of Brooklyn. I knew that I would name her Alma, the word for soul in Spanish, the word we say in our home when there’s something deeper than “I love you.” Mi Alma, we say in Spanish, my soul. 

Alma will be five years old in December and she’s having a tough time. Today she is the middle child. She’s right in the middle, two years older than her brother, Mathias, and two years younger than her big sister, Helen. In her short five years she has lived through the death of one grandmother and the grief of a father. She has lived through a pandemic. She has lived through staying inside for a year or two. She has lived through masks, and hand sanitizer. She has lived through a traumatic seizure her little brother had when he was almost two. She has lived. 

On Sunday, Alma’s tantrum was the worst it has been since she was three, when we adopted the comical name “threenager” and were convinced that by five the meltdowns would cease. But this was the first time I feared my own child. It was also the first time I had to remove my other two children, take them into the bedroom, and close the door saying through a crack “when you can calm down, Mami can open the door.” I was afraid of my almost five-year-old, I was afraid of my soul. Mi Alma. 

A child’s behavior is often a two-way street. In a parenting webinar I take out of desperation, the host speaks to me through a screen and says, “the child’s behavior is usually in direct reaction to the adult’s behavior”. This is a complex idea for me, especially because Alma is the child who is most like me in personality and empathy. She’s also my most tactile child, always needing to be close, comforted, hugged, and snuggled. When inside my belly, she carved out a space in my spine and stayed there for much of the final trimester. She found such a cozy spot inside of my womb that I now have three engorged discs in my back that will never go back to normal. With Alma I had sciatica down my left leg, I had gurd, I had so much trouble sleeping, I would sit on the couch and just cry. But when she arrived, she was the sweetest baby in the nursery. My night nurse at the hospital said that every nurse fought to hold Alma because she was so sweet and quiet, a good eater, and a gem to hold. 

On Sunday I hold Alma in my arms on the floor as she wails. “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh,” she screams so loud I fear the other neighbors in my apartment complex might knock on the door to ask what’s going on. And I would have to tell them, “This is a tantrum, my daughter is throwing a tantrum.” The baby starts to cry, Helen starts to cry, and finally, when Alma won’t stop, I start to cry. It’s all just too much sometimes. 

I’m not always a great mother. My friends say that I am and that makes me think I’m like a night villain wearing a cape, pretending to be a normal citizen when really, I feel like a creep most of the time. I get very angry sometimes, annoyed, impatient. When Alma starts to cry because she can’t have what she wants, which is often these days, I get upset, I scold, I leave the room. Sometimes I lose my temper, and this makes me feel like the worst mother on the planet even though I’m human, even though I know mothers lose their tempers, even though I know, I know, I know. But the mother guilt, the mother wound is sometimes stronger than what’s real. Sometimes, as a mother, it’s hard to find the truth in the middle of a tsunami.

“Alma, mi Alma,” I coo in Spanish. “Alma, are you happy?” I ask one day holding my middle child in my arms on my yoga mat after she has stepped in front of my video to cry and scream that someone took her toy.

“Yes,” she nods.

“Alma, mi Alma,” I continue, “did you have a good day at school yesterday?”

“Yes,” she says again. My hands are interlaced with her tiny fingers. I wonder how a child so small can make such a huge fire in the belly.

“Are you angry at Mommy? Are you angry at Papi? Are you angry at Helen? Are you angry at Mathias?”

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“Do you know we love you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” 

A friend suggests I ask simple questions to find out what’s going on. “Ask her to find out, to figure it out,” she says, as if motherhood is that simple, as if there’s always an answer and when we have it everything will go back to normal, as if normal is a place or an award we can achieve. 

After the tears I pack a lunch and get everyone dressed. “Come on you guys,” I smile, my eyes puffy from exhaustion, “let’s go to our tree.”

One of my children’s favorite places is a tree deep in Prospect Park that has fallen over. It’s where Alma feels most free to climb and sit calmly with her siblings. We bring grapes, turkey sandwiches, and little cartons of organic chocolate milk. The air in Brooklyn is crisp. The leaves down Prospect Park West promise a colorful fall, a bright school year. The browns, yellows, blazing oranges lead the way toward a little salvation on the weekends. The children build forts, magical kingdoms where only they can save a village that has been under attack by an evil monster. We sit on the grass and get our jeans muddy from a fallen rain from the night before. A puppy nearby catches a tennis ball in his mouth and brings it back to his owner. Two lovers kiss and embrace under an old oak tree. 

I remember just two years ago when Prospect Park was the only salvation for a city suffering silently with the rest of the world. I remember how we felt: alone, afraid, and unsure of what the universe held in store for us. Perhaps this is how children feel a lot of the time, especially tactile children like Alma who need to be comforted more often, who need to be reassured that, “everything will be alright, shush now, everything will be fine.”

“Mami,” Alma says happier than she has looked all week, “Did you know that a big monster was living in our tree, but he was a friendly monster and now we can climb the tree with him and he gets us candy?”

“Wow, really?” I say, “what a nice monster!”

“Mami,” Alma looks at me the sun glinting off her brown eyes, a strand of hair caught on her cheek.

“Yes, my love?”

“I’m sorry I screamed.” She hugs me.

“Thank you for saying sorry. It’s ok to be angry, right?”

“Yes,” she answers, “but it’s not ok to have a tantrum and hurt people.”

I know we’re learning. I know that together we’re learning. I know this. Deep in my soul, in the depths of my alma, I know. The park’s beauty promises salvation, patience, wonder, and the magic of childhood. At almost five years old, Alma knows this too. 

“Mami, I love it here,” she laughs while running to her tree, because in this moment it’s hers, something all for herself, something that’s big enough for everyone so she doesn’t have to share it. She doesn’t have to squeeze herself in the middle for it. She doesn’t have to throw herself on the floor and beg to be seen. On the heels of winter, the Brooklyn leaves carry her, and by carrying her, they carry me too. They carry all of us forward as we approach the darkest months. And if we look closely enough, we can see that the dark and the cold is really just a hiding place full of brilliant light. 

In case you’re wondering what a “NIMBY” is: “NIMBY” stands for “Not In My Back Yard”. The characterization of a NIMBY is someone who opposes a proposed development in their local area, that they would likely support if built somewhere else. Calling someone a NIMBY is usually intended to be an insult; calling someone on their hypocrisy. That’s definitely how it’s been used against me on Twitter. You see, I was recently an active and vocal opponent of a rezoning application that, literally, impacted my own backyard. However, there is a lot more to NIMBYism than internet trolls have time or context to appreciate. It’s actually a long story, so this is the first of two parts. The second part will be in the next installment of Park Slope Reader in Spring 2023.

I’m a lifelong Brooklynite. I’ve been a homeowner in Gowanus since before it was trendy. The area has changed a lot in my lifetime. Change is inevitable, and often beneficial. But not all change is good. And, therefore, concern for change can be reasonable, even if characterized as NIMBYism.

When my Brooklyn-born/bred husband and I purchased our small Gowanus home in 2003, our Brooklyn-born/bred real estate attorney made sure we knew that a 11215 zip code on 8th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues was NOT Park Slope. We knew it wasn’t Park Slope; we couldn’t afford Park Slope. 

Many Brooklyn born/bred family members doubted our decision to buy in Gowanus, and for good reason. Gowanus was best known for its contaminated waterway, as well as rats, drugs and sex workers. Gowanus was not known for its quality housing. Gowanus is not flush with gorgeous Brownstones, coffee shops, or real estate offices. Our particular block in Gowanus has 12 understated houses, along with 50 lots involving significant manufacturing and business activity. Industry on our block includes a commercial carting company that does NOT smell good in the summer, a woodworking shop that is very noisy, and lots of truck traffic. 

Our block, and much of Gowanus, has been zoned for manufacturing purposes since the early 20th century. Our own house, built shortly after the Civil War, is the oldest structure on the block. Since our house was built before zoning rules even existed in NYC, it is considered “grandfathered” for “non-conforming use” as a residential property; the other 11 houses on the block are similarly characterized. While we are allowed to live in these existing structures as homes, we cannot add residential square footage on our properties. Living in houses built a long time ago, to meet different needs, can be difficult. As a result, many of us have considered building small extensions, or even taking down the structure that exists, and rebuilding a better home. We’re not allowed to do either. We are only allowed to expand, or rebuild, for manufacturing, or related non-residential, uses.

Our brick house was originally built 17 feet wide, 25 feet deep and 3 stories tall around 1866 without plumbing or electricity. When the local municipality built the first brick sewer in the middle of the street (still in use today), they couldn’t place the sewer underground, because Gowanus is topographically a swamp. So, in around 1880, the City built the sewer on top of the existing ground, and built the street on top of the sewer. As a result, the 3 story existing structure became a 2 story structure, with a full “English basement”. Around 1910, the owner built a wood-frame extension on the side of the house, literally leaning it on the wood-frame house recently built next door. The street-facing brick facade of the extension on our house makes it look like one contiguous, brick home, 25 feet wide; it is not. Three (3) of the homes on our block are built out of brick. The other 8 are wooden frame structures, some with a first floor framed in brick. Most, like ours, have old stone foundations.

Much of the rest of our block is made up of 1-4 story brick factory-type buildings. In 2003, the largest factory buildings on our block were operating, sometimes 7 days a week, making sweaters. Around 2005, a line of tractor trailers and large cranes brought enormous machines, some 30 feet long, out through deconstructed windows onto flatbed trucks. The machines were destined to continue their useful lifespan in Mexico. The machines and factory workers were largely replaced by artist studios and small businesses. In 2008, The Bell House bar and performance space opened up around the corner. Things were changing in Gowanus.

By 2010, nobody was doubting our real estate choices. Growth in local feral cat colonies largely diminished the localized rat population. More active streets at night pushed out the sex workers. Drugs remain a perennial issue, but not significantly impacting the local quality of life. And, after centuries of problematic industrial use, the Gowanus Canal is being “cleaned” up. Change can be great.

Smack dab in the middle of some of the most expensive residential neighborhoods in the country EVERYONE wished they could own a piece of Gowanus. Running out of space to build in Downtown Brooklyn, and limited by the landmarking restrictions of Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and Park Slope, real estate developers drooled at the opportunity to buy and build along the banks of an EPA defined “Super Fund Site”. Add to the pressures NYC’s housing affordability crisis, and residential development in Gowanus seems like a win-win situation. But, there are many potential losers, including some outside of our control, like topography and the environment.

There is a VERY GOOD reason why Gowanus was never a residential stronghold: Gowanus, ecologically speaking, is not a good place for housing. It’s better suited for other uses.

The area was ideal for use by the early manufacturing industry since the Gowanus canal provides an easy route to move supplies and products to and from New York Harbor. The canal also provided the early manufacturing industry access to the water they needed to clean and cool their equipment. The canal and the area surrounding it were also deemed great places to dump dangerous industrial byproducts. After 150 years of industry in Gowanus, there is a lot of contaminated water and land. 

For the manufacturing industry, Gowanus was ideal. For housing, not so much. Gowanus is located at the bottom of two hills, only about 10 feet above sea level. Urban planners have long avoided locating housing in low-lying areas close to water. As NYC developed, the most valuable residential properties in Brooklyn, like those in Park Slope, Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, and Brooklyn Heights were high above the water; the names of these neighborhoods actually reflect their altitude. 

When the government finally chose to invest in affordable housing development, they found the cheapest land with the lowest demand, in Red Hook, Gowanus, the Lower East Side, and South Bronx. These areas are all close to the shore line, and prone to flooding like the devastation suffered 10 years ago in the aftermath of Super Storm Sandy. These areas are not just vulnerable to storm surge from the shoreline, but endangered by the rising water table, as well. 

The old Gowanus swamp exists as the current water table, fewer than 10 feet under the foundation of our 8th Street home. In the summer, when the water table is highest, some of our neighbors have water coming up through cracks in their basement floors. As the water table is expected to rise with continued impacts of climate change, there is little to be done to protect our properties from this threat. The old stone foundation of our own home is endangered from below. Storm surge and water tables aren’t our only issues, though; we also have to tackle sewer backflow and overflow.

Soon after we purchased our home in 2003, we learned from a NYC Department of Environmental Preservation (DEP) official that the brick sewer on our block was “really old”, and insufficient. Gowanus residents and businesses have long known these inadequacies. We have “check valves” on our sewer lines so that sewage doesn’t invade our basements when rain overwhelms our sewer system that combines household waste with stormwater. We also have submersible (aka sump) pumps that push out waste water when it penetrates our property even with our best efforts against it. We lend each other wet/dry vacuums as needed. The DEP official, way back when, told us we needed a new sewer… It’s been almost 20 years since that DEP visit, and still no new sewer.

Every year, at least one neighbor suffers catastrophic property loss due to sewer backflow after a storm. Last year, a new non-residential neighbor just completed renovation of a beautiful performance rehearsal space when the sewer overflow from Tropical Storm Ida ruined their efforts, and set them back months on their project. In big storms, like Sandy and Ida, sewer and utility manhole covers are known to fly up 20 feet in the air under pressure, as geysers of stormwater mixed with sewage flood the streets and sidewalks of Gowanus. For these reasons, many in the area know to avoid 9th Street and 2nd Avenue after storms. It can take hours before the street is passable to foot and car traffic.

Even with these concerns, I understand the need for change, and know Gowanus presents an opportunity. In 2013, I participated in a series of community forums called “Bridging Gowanus”. Through this Pratt Institute moderated initiative, residents and businesses came together with our elected officials, and envisioned a better Gowanus. We aimed for moderate residential development with a focus on affordable and accessible housing, thriving business and creative communities, and increased green space and playscapes. Most importantly, we held high hopes for long-overdue significant investment in infrastructure. We got very little of what we worked hard to envision. 

What we got was the “Gowanus Neighborhood Rezoning Plan”, passed by the New York City Council in 2021. This plan will bring 8200 new residential units to an 82 block stretch of the area. More than 5000 of these units will be luxury rentals and condos; not at all what the Bridging Gowanus initiative envisioned. About 3000 units will be “affordable”. Around 2000 of the “affordable” units will have rents ranging from $2000-4000 per month, for households making between $70,000-200,000 per year. Fewer than 1000 of the affordable units will be accessible to low-income families. The influx of luxury units will threaten existing affordable units in and around Gowanus, especially those in nearby rent stabilized buildings. As has happened in other areas of the City, private landlords often push out tenants paying below-market rent when the local average rents substantially increase.

NYC needs to meet the demands of our growing population by building more housing. We also need MORE than housing. The Gowanus rezoning plan lacks adequate investment in schools, green spaces, transportation, and other community services. Additionally, the plan completely ignores the fact that almost all of the 8200 housing units being added to Gowanus are being built in a floodplain, with a grim climate outlook, next to a toxic Superfund site.

I actively challenged the Gowanus Neighborhood Rezoning Plan. I worked with, and supported, community groups that yearned for the rezoning process to heed their concerns. We were all called NIMBY’s. We were called the “greatest threat” to the project. But the negative media coverage we received rarely acknowledged our real concerns. We weren’t saying no to any and all development; we weren’t saying no to new housing; and we DEFINITELY weren’t saying no to affordable housing. We were saying “hold up”. We were saying “there are better options than what you’re proposing”. We were saying “there are people living and working here with little power, who are going to be impacted in really bad ways”. But, we were largely ignored, and the plan was passed. 

In May 2022, Gowanus community members raised concerns about the impact of pile driving at some local construction sites, as developers raced to start construction to take advantage of a sunsetting real estate tax abatement program. Neighbors brought attention to how the pile driving wasn’t just continuously loud throughout the day, but it was also shaking the ground for blocks. Even more concerning, the work was causing strange odors in the area. You see, the site once held a natural gas plant, and the land was known to be contaminated with coal tar, a carcinogenic, industrial waste. Even though many elected officials insisted on quick action to respond to community concerns, there was no assurance that the construction was adequately protecting the site, or the community, from dangerous contamination of toxic vapors.

Two months later, kids playing in a nearby playground, again, complained about a disgusting smell. At this point, the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation confirmed that instrument readings at a particular site found volatile organic compounds exceeding acceptable levels. The work was temporarily halted, but later restarted. If it wasn’t for the complaints, would the community even know there was a problem?

Sometimes NIMBY’s are privileged people who don’t want change. But, I bet more times than not, NIMBY’s are people with important experience whose concerns should be heeded. In part 2 of this piece, available in the next edition of the Park Slope reader, I explore a more recent, and more personal, experience where my own NIMBYism was really brought to the surface. 

I was waiting for a friend at the entrance of Prospect Park last Wednesday, under a feverish and melting orange sky. Behind me, a circle of about twenty people, all ages and shades, were half-heartedly stretching. They were gearing up to run, but before they set out, their presumed leader, a woman with poised posture, quieted lingering murmurs from the group. “We are going to share our name and our pace,” she directed, “and then we’ll get going.” And they were off, in foot-pattering unison, with the wet leaves of autumn sticking to their soles, shrinking from the portrait at Grand Army Plaza.

At the beginning of 2020, I joined the same club I saw last Wednesday: The Prospect Park Track Club. As someone who prefers to run by himself, I’d avoided running clubs up until then. But I was recovering from running-related injuries, and I was looking for some extra motivation. If you are someone who is currently contemplating the same decision, you’ll probably end up on the NYC RUNS website, a nonprofit that organizes running events all over the city and keeps a catalog of active running clubs in each of the five boroughs. Or, you’ll look on Instagram. In either instance, you’ll be unable to overlook Prospect Park Track Club. They have over 1000 paying members, a vibrant social media presence, impressive apparel partnerships, and most notably, meetups four times a week. They have coaches, time trials, marathon support, and guest speakers. All for only $25 a year.

I went to six group runs over the course of six weeks. Each time, I met friendly folks, but never the same person twice. Afterwards, people checked their pace, logged it on their fitness watches, and went their separate ways. It was the harshest part of winter during those sessions, and no one was looking to linger. Fair enough – and if the pandemic hadn’t struck soon afterwards, I’m sure I would have found a rhythm and a sense that I belonged. But I didn’t get the chance. I went back to solo running at the beginning of Covid, and then accepted a job teaching high school English in New Orleans.

In New Orleans, I was a stranger to everyone. To boot, the city was not its vibrant, gregarious self. In the midst of a pandemic, it was a pouting city, like a toddler in the wake of a tantrum, sulking in the corner. In order to meet people, I sought out running clubs.

The first club I joined, called The 504th, was a socially conscious and diverse group of runners. Each meetup was in a different neighborhood, and a resident of that neighborhood would lead the pack of usually sixty people, pointing out things they thought the group should know. The leaders of the group were entertaining and inclusive, but often preachy and didactic. They ran slowly, and as a pack. If I wanted the freedom to occasionally push it, this was not the group to do so.

The second group I joined, the Power Milers, met twice a week: on Thursday evenings at the track, where they ran with the tenacity of prize-winning greyhounds, and again, punishingly early on Sunday mornings, at god-knows-where because I never showed up. In my first and last appearance with the group, members asked about my experience, my personal bests, and maybe even my ancestral roots. I can’t totally remember. Anyway, I joined their second heat of runners,assuming I could keep up. I finished with their fourth heat and was too winded to have held a conversation – not that anyone was looking to chat anyway.

I joined the third group after moving out of the French Quarter. My new apartment was next to a running store that hosted a run every Monday night at 6:30. Goldy Locks. I knew right away. The tone. The size. The intrigued looks I received just by being a new face. It was all so casual. They gave everyone three options, 3 miles, 5 miles. 7 miles. Show up at the bar when you’re finished. Meet people, have a good time, and move your body. Those seemed to be the unwritten rules, and for me it was exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for.

When the school year was up, I decided to move back to New York, mainly to be closer to friends and family. Of my transition back to Brooklyn, no longer attending the Louisiana Running + Walking Club was the hardest part. It only took three weeks into being back until I figured I’d try to recreate something similar.

It didn’t take off at first. When I first advertised the club last October, only my brother and roommate showed up. A total failure. A week later I found out I needed a cartilage transplant for my right knee and postponed the idea of starting a new running club all together.

During the eight months of recovery, I had time to cultivate a more vivid picture of what I wanted a run club to look like. More importantly, I spent those months getting situated in Brooklyn, widening my circle of friends and neighbors. By the time summer arrived and I was once again ambulatory, I had a much greater sense of what people were craving and how to provide it.

The first thing was that most people I talked to had no interest in running. Not a problem. Just walk. For too long, run clubs have alienated those willing to move, but not run. Currently, we have as many walkers as we do runners. If one day a walker wants to start running, great. If not, that’s fine. And say a self-identified runner is seeking some casual companionship but is sore from an active weekend, they’ll walk. There truly is no premium on speed. The important thing is that you have some place that is not work or your apartment to let loose, and meet people who live around the corner. I think most people do not have this space in their life.

Creating a space where people feel no inferiority walking may be our special ingredient, but it is our commitment to “the hang” that will keep the club growing. Most people who show up will run or walk for thirty minutes but they’ll hang out at the bar we partner with for an hour or two. We’ll drink, play trivia, put strangers on the hot seat, make plans with a new friend, and most notably, remember your name. The people who show up are open to the idea of meeting and making friends. There are no cliques, not because it is a rule, but because it seems to be understood that life is more exciting when we know more of our neighbors.

Finding the right sponsor was the last crucial piece in creating a space that prioritized community before personal progress. Such a disposition towards the world speaks to the symmetry between the club and the bar we partnered with, Commonwealth. When I first asked the owner, Ray, if he’d be open to hosting a run club at his bar, under the agreement for a discount on drinks, he was fervently casual in his willingness. If you have been to

Commonwealth Bar before, this probably doesn’t surprise you. On the bar’s website it reads on the homepage:

Commonwealth is a pretty decent bar at the corner of 5th Ave. and 12 St. in Park Slope, Brooklyn. We’re open every day until 4 a.m. There’s lots of booze, a spacious patio, a famous jukebox, and a great pinball machine. We also have a giant umbrella, and our regulars don’t suck.