Sighing and pushing herself to her feet, Lina continued down Mother Gaston to the library. Blue scaffolding shaded half the journey. Tree roots had sliced and diced the concrete, and she recalled how as a child she’d played the game her brothers called “avoid the sidewalk cracks.” Now, with the cane, those cracks were the bane of her existence.
Lina had lived almost her whole life in Brownsville. Born in East Harlem, but she hadn’t liked it too much. The other Puerto Rican kids had sometimes called her the n-word with the hardr—her father being a Black American—and Lina had thrown some punches. She’d been a tough tomboy of a girl, the oldest of five.
But all the fights stopped when they’d reached Brownsville in 1956. Back then, there’d been a mix of Black, Puerto Rican, and Jewish, everyone going over to each other’s houses, the parents watching one another’s kids, no matter what the race. Of course, as she grew older, her Jewish friends disappeared from the neighborhood, often without a word goodbye. Yet even after the Jewish residents left for the suburbs, it had still been a thriving community. People seemed to forget that now—they talked like White Flight had destroyed the neighborhood and White Return was all it needed.
When Lina finally made it to the library, she was ten minutes early, but Brandon, the library intern, whispered to her that the “city people” were already upstairs in the Brownsville Heritage House. Lina rode the elevator to the third floor and found the two visitors sitting at the conference table. Olivia looked like Michelle Pfeiffer in that bad movie about the school, and Andrew, like Ross fromFriends.
“Welcome to the Brownsville Heritage House,” Lina said, lowering herself into a seat, trying not to appear out of breath. “Too bad you weren’t here last Saturday. We had a jazz concert. That saxophonist—absolutely incredible. Everyone in Brownsville came out.”
“How fantastic. I’m sorry we missed it.”
“I’m so glad Brownsville has this venue.”
The Heritage House was a large multipurpose space on the library’s third floor, and it was also a museum of sorts, with all kinds of Brownsville artifacts on the shelves along the walls: family china from down South, Black Power zines from the sixties, and what had to be the city’s largest collection of Black Barbie dolls.
They chatted for a bit about the library’s history and future, but Lina wasn’t there to make small talk. She spread her proposal before her and began, with gusto, to read it.
“The Wesley Price Cultural Center, LGBTQ Youth Center, and Community Land Trust is a project more than twenty years in the making. In 1992, we community organizers were sick and tired of passing the empty lots on Livonia Avenue that had also become a location for drug use and the site of frequent muggings and stabbings. We knew ourcommunity was in need. Crack devastated a generation, and our young people had no one to look up to and no activities to excite them. From this, we envisioned the creation of a state-of-the-art cultural center with an LGBTQ homeless youth component. The block we selected has a powerful history: the site of the renowned Freedom School of the 1970s, an institution beloved in the community and recognized by Congresswoman and Presidential-Should-Have-Been Ms. Shirley Chisholm, before it was burned down in an act of arson that was never investigated.
“When we thought about who should own and develop this piece of land, we realized that it shouldn’t be one individual who might not be accountable to Brownsville’s people. No offense intended, but we don’t think it should remain the city’s property. The city has let it lie in neglect for almost forty years. Our vision includes the creation of a community land trust to steward the land, named in honor of Wesley Price, a young artist from Brownsville who was taken too early from us. A community land trust, or CLT, is a community-led nonprofit that takes land and housing off the speculative market and stewards it for the public good. It’s an alternative way of relating to land similar to Lenape concepts. The community land trust structure originated in the Jim Crow South, when Black civil rights leaders came together to collectively purchase land in Georgia. CLTs now exist all over the country, and in New York City, the Cooper Square CLT in the Lower East Side owns several blocks that include hundreds of affordable apartments. Today the New York City Community Land Initiative coalition is renewing a CLT movement across NYC, starting with a new community land trust in El Barrio East Harlem. We think this is the right structure for us here in Brownsville. We believe Brownsvillians must be in charge of planning, developing, and stewarding land in the neighborhood for the public well-being. We have spoken to partners who would be able to assist us with this work, including Trevor LDC, an M/WBE development company owned by Brownsville native Gregory Trevor, as well as gardeners from Salam Garden…”
Lina continued for about ten minutes, and she was so energized when she reached the end of the proposal that she could have marched all the way to city hall with a signpost in the air.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Armstrong,” Andrew said. “We really respect the level of detail and thought you put into this.”
“And I completely second that.” Olivia nodded. “Since we’re launching our Brownsville planning initiative, hearing a vision for one of the vacant city-owned properties is extremely helpful.”
“Wonderful!” Lina said with enthusiasm, trying to play the good community partner. But Lina reminded herself that nothing was certain. She’d been around the block enough times to see young government types like these make promises they couldn’t keep.
“So.” Lina laced her fingers together. “When do you hand us the deed?”
Olivia laughed.
“Sounds like you’re ready to start digging,” Andrew said cheerily, fiddling with the cap of his pen.
Perhaps she’d been too direct, Lina thought, pressing her lips together. Maybe she sounded unprofessional. But what was the point of being coy? She wanted them to understand: Brownsville was waiting. Hadbeenwaiting. And neither Brownsville nor Lina could wait another ten years.
“We actually have some good news for you.” Andrew smiled again, pulling himself snug against the table. “As we said, the administration really sees Brownsville as one of its top priorities, and this site on Livonia is just ripe with opportunity to be something better for the neighborhood.” He exchanged a look with Olivia. “We do intend to release what is known as a Request for Proposal.”
“An RFP,” Lina said hurriedly, because yes, she knew the term. An RFP was an invitation to submit a project proposal, often for a vacant plot of city-owned land. The RFP would lay out the city’s objectives and give developers a few months to write an application. If she and Trevor LDC wanted a chance to build on the lot, this was it. “So the city is thinking about an RFP, or it’s actually releasing an RFP?” Lina asked. “When?”
“Later this year.”
“Oh!” She kept it cool, though she wanted to shout “Ay bendito!” to the ceiling. “Thatisgood news.”
So many decades. So many petitions. And now they were finally going to let Brownsville build on the land. She’d have to call Greg Trevor immediately. But it was too good; there had to be a catch.
“We invite you to submit to the RFP, possibly in collaboration with the other stakeholders who have some beautiful visions for the site,” Olivia said.
“Other stakeholders?”
Lina felt a knot forming in her stomach.
“There are about three or four parties who have come forward to us about the 78-80 Livonia Avenue lot.”
“Who?”
Andrew glanced at Olivia. “I… I don’t think we’re really at liberty to share their names yet.”
