“What happened to you and Katrina? You ain’t mentioned her name in a while.”
“Katrina probably thinks I don’t make enough green.”
“And so you’re going after the reporter who thinks you’re a big shot.”
“Ms. Lina!” he yelped, and to his own advantage he was too dark to blush, but she could still make out the embarrassment in the bulge of his eyes. “Ms. Lina, I ain’t going after…”
“You better be careful what you say to Miss Sadie,” she warned.
The CLT steering committee was divided on the matter. Ms. Dorothy Peters and Ms. Keesha Jones were on Lina’s side, skeptical of a partnership with Bernard & Co., but Mr. Alvin Banks and Ms. Cynthia Garcia thought a Bernard & Co. joint venture might be the only path forward. It was Ms. Freda Simmons, like usual, who nimbly brokered a compromise: Lina and Tyrell would agree to the meeting, with the intention to report back to the committee what they’d learned. In addition, under no circumstances would they accept a deal that significantly diverged from the CLT’s vision.
The following week, Lina and Tyrell took an Access-A-Ride to Manhattan. Lina hated Access-A-Ride. Car rides made her sick, andAccess-A-Ride was always late. She loved the subway, but it had become difficult to climb the stairs of the El.
They moved like a tortoise through the traffic, Lina sucking on a ginger candy and Tyrell cracking his knuckles. They passed that new spaceship–roller coaster of a basketball stadium and all the construction sites downtown, and also that hipster bakery on Flatbush where her former student June—now a lawyer at the New York State Attorney General’s office—had treated her to a blueberry muffin.
What a difference this was from the old days when city hall wanted to wipe half of Brooklyn off the map. Now rent was sky-high, and all the Black folks were moving to Atlanta. It made sense: What’s the point of paying two thousand dollars for a two-bedroom when the kids still get shot on the street? Nellie, had she been alive, would have said something like that. Nellie had possessed none of Lina’s loyalty to place. Lina’s loyalty to place had ruined Nellie’s life—at least this was the thought that still haunted her, some thirty years later.
Maybe it had all started with her mother’s prayers. It had seemed a miracle when, less than a year after their father’s death, they’d won the lottery for Van Dyke Houses. At the time, Van Dyke had new appliances and not a single piece of litter in the courtyard. Lina still remembered their first Sunday service at Our Lady of the Presentation, her mother whispering,Gracias Dios, gracias por responder mis oraciones.Even years after Lina had left the church, she would still believe Brownsville was God’s answer.
And then, how quickly Brownsville had made Lina its beloved. In her teenage years, as soon as she’d step outside, all the younger kids would run across the concrete to fling their arms around her waist and press their gap-toothed faces into her stomach. Sometimes she’d walk around with those children clinging to her like one big octopus in blue jeans. They’d loved her because she was not afraid to stand up to bullies or to fight for the boys who the others calledmaricones, and also, because of the art activities. In the winters, she’d taught them to make ice spaceships, and in the summers, go-carts withwood planks from the lumberyard on Livonia. Later, she’d become an art teacher at J.H.S. 271, which had led to Mr. Parson, which had led to the Freedom School and everything that followed—everything that, decades later, had her now stuck on the Brooklyn Bridge, trying not to vomit that morning’s oatmeal.
Bernard & Co.’s office was on the forty-third floor of an Art Deco skyrise adjacent to the East River. The doorman printed name tags, and then Lina and Tyrell got lost trying to figure out which of the many different elevators would take them to the right floor. When they reached the forty-third, a receptionist led them to a conference room.
“God bless,” Lina exclaimed, hobbling over to the windows, her nausea beginning to fade. She looked out at the bridges, the Statue of Liberty, the ferries hustling back and forth from the islands, and then over at Brooklyn. “I enjoyed the twelfth floor but imagine living on the forty-third,” she whispered to Tyrell. “You’d start thinking you owned the borough.”
“Ms. Rodriguez Armstrong, Mr. Scott. Welcome! Thank you for coming.”
Mr. Bernard wore a pirate blouse, one button open at the collar. In his company were two members of his staff: a South Asian man with slicked hair and a pretty Black lady in a lavender sheath dress. He explained he had another meeting to attend, but that the two associates were there to represent him. The four sat down at the conference table, and Tyrell started them off, detailing the CLT’s proposal.
“Four floors, and each has a theme. Floor one is the auditorium and rehearsal spaces. Floor two has a darkroom, a studio, a computer lab. Floor three, classrooms for certification programs. Floor four is the LGBTQ youth space. And we’re envisioning an outdoor space as well, a community garden,” he said. “But most important, the land would be owned by the community land trust, ensuring it never gets resold for profit. We’re in the process of incorporating the Wesley Price Community Land Trust.”
“An interesting concept. I think I’ve heard of them before,” the lady said. “Like, Vermont, right? Does Vermont have a community land trust?”
“Not just Vermont,” Lina said. “There are hundreds across the country. First one was founded by Black Freedom Fighters in Georgia.”
“That is definitely interesting,” said the South Asian guy, offering a rushed smile. “Now, our understanding is that the city’s RFP is going to state a preference for affordable housing on the site, but I think there may be space on a ground floor for some kind of community center.”
“They want to putmorehousing in Brownsville?”
“The RFP will be issued as part of the administration’s affordable housing plan,” he said. “So the housing will be lottery units targeting a range of incomes.”
“I don’t know where the city got the idea we need more housing in Brownsville.” Lina almost wanted to laugh. “They need to remember the history of this neighborhood, the history of Robert Moses in this neighborhood. We have more public housing than anywhere in the country.”
“Of course,” said the man, pulling himself toward the table and folding his hands before him. “It’s important not to increase the concentration of poverty in Brownsville. But the administration is trying to build as much affordable housing as possible to meet the greater crisis, and every neighborhood must do its part.”
Lina pulled back her chin and glanced wearily at Tyrell.
“We get what you’re saying,” Tyrell attempted. “But the whole idea was to create something the community really needs. Show these kids that true investments are being made in their future.”
“I suggest thinking of it this way: housing will keep many of these children out of homelessness.”
Lina didn’t appreciate the man’s tone.
“So, this new affordable housing. How do you define ‘affordable’?” asked Tyrell.
“We’re planning on using the Extremely Low- and Low-IncomeAffordability term sheet,” said the woman, passing a printout across the table to Tyrell. “It’s the city’s best program to increase the supply of housing for low-income households.”
“That’s that AMI bullshit,” muttered Lina, and all of them—even Tyrell—raised their eyebrows. “Excuse my language. But that Area Median Income metric that the government uses to define ‘low-income’ is ridiculous. If you’re a family making fifty thousand in Brownsville, no one calls you ‘low-income.’?”
