Generational Lease
Around age 12, I was talking to a group of girls about where we were from. They rambled off random towns on Long Island, in which they all knew. When I said I was from Williamsburg- crickets.
Most people move to New York City to escape their hometowns, to find themselves, or to get over a relationship. They dye their hair and buy a one-way ticket from places like Oklahoma to the Big Apple. They want to get lost in the crowds and birth friendships with their baristas. We native New Yorkers call them transplants, meaning they spend most of their money on rent, and whatever's left goes toward an overpriced drink at The Polo Bar. New York, to me, is more than this, despite the clichés and trends.
Specifically, Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It used to be nicknamed ‘the new Soho,’ reflecting its industrial vibe and small shops. The nickname is outdated, as Williamsburg has since established its own identity. I am a second-generation Pecoraro living on Leonard Street as an Italian-American. My grandparents bought this house for $4,000 in the 50’s because Manhattan was too expensive. Now, if it were not for them, we wouldn’t be able to afford it here. There is still a small community of Italians, and I am lucky enough to be part of it. On many occasions, I’d be in a coffee shop or walking, and an old woman would approach me, pinch my cheeks, and holler, “Manaja! Tu sei Gloria!” Meaning, I resemble my deceased Nonna, and even though I don’t know them, they know me just by my face.
My father, Tito (left), my Nonna, Gloria (middle), and my Aunt Felicia (right) together in my backyard, 1970.
NYC is not about being lost in crowds or getting swallowed up by an overcrowded neighborhood. It means waking up to the smell of mozzarella and getting it smoked on weekends. I used to hate the smell of smoked mozzarella. Growing up across the street from my family’s mozzarella factory spoiled me in many ways, but as a child, I never understood why they smoked it (now I do). But that smell was home for me. I wake up and see Daisy in her apron, opening and closing the garage doors.
She waves to Patsy, owner of the Metropolitan Fish Market across the street. He never waves back, but he doesn’t to anyone. Patsy and my father grew up together, so I am told many stories about how they used to “run the streets”. I always giggle and smile to be polite, but my eyes roll to myself. Patsy has a mechanical whale outside the fish store that I used to play on as a little girl. My dad never put money in the machine, so I was content to just climb on it while he bought fish. I am convinced it doesn’t work anyway, because in my 23 years of living, I’ve never seen that whale move. Now the whale’s vibrant blue paint has faded, and its smile is dull. I guess we both have aged.
Blue whale outside the Fish Market.
What is special about my relationship with Williamsburg is that it’s become my happy place. I cross my street and pass my first job, Napoli Bakery, where I always wave to my old boss in the window, whether he can see me or not. While I was working there, I would take the long way to the train station. I’d go up Devoe Street and turn right on Lorimer Street. In doing so, I thought I’d dodge extra shifts. Sadly, the family shut down their business, so I reminisce on those days. Back on Metropolitan Avenue, Sal is usually smoking his cigarette, the older man who lives in the house next to Napoli. Bagelsmith, the best bagel shop, is on Lorimer Street, which is good news for them and bad news for my checking account. The bagel guy knows me by name, which is more embarrassing on my part because of my (almost) daily visits. I never know his name, but I pretend like I do. I love looking at the same graffiti every day, whereas my parents call in endless complaints because they “can’t stand looking at it.” I know the wait time of just about every red light that surrounds my block, so I know when it's acceptable to walk through. When I sleep at night, my house shakes every so often from the L train's underground tracks. Living 300 ft from the train has its blessings, but as a little girl, I was always scared of it.
Just a block up my street is my elementary school, PS 132, where my father also went to school. He always told me it was nostalgic taking me, and despite the short distance, he always accompanied my sister and me. At the time, I didn't know what he meant (or what the word ‘nostalgic’ meant), but now I understand. Walking by the new generation of kids playing and running around the courtyard during recess is like a passing visit to my youth. It’s a reminder that we all started somewhere, and at the time, I was clueless about the impact it’d have on me. I was too focused on not being from Suffolk County to see the hip, modern neighborhood that is my home, a place people save up years to visit.
No matter what bagel shop or subway station it is, my favorite part of Williamsburg is my window. My room is at the front of my house, the perfect spot for people-watching, the ideal angle for sunlight, and the perfect way to see how accurate the weather is and observe what people are already wearing. Typically, there is always a runner. But are they wearing shorts or leggings? An older man is never an accurate measure, because they are usually wearing a jacket no matter what. I typically seek out the dog walkers or kids on their way to school. Sometimes I can see the jacket their mom forced them to bring being stuffed in their backpack. That's when I know it's starting to get nice out.