Capturing Communities in Words and Images:

Red Hook Brooklyn, named for the red clay it was built upon and the Dutch word Hoek, meaning “point” or “corner,” juts out upon the East River. As I sit on the pier in late summer, a familiar chill cuts through the warmth of the season, characteristic of the air above bodies of water.  It is evening time, and looking out upon the water and landscape, I feel as though I have discovered a secret. Lady Liberty, glowing green, appears as a sentinel, granting me permission to stay for awhile. This area, the only part of New York City that, on land, has a full frontal view of the Statue, is locally known as The Back.

I was brought here by a friend, who walked me down a long and lonely block, which seemed to be deserted and abandoned.  Shuttered warehouses loomed ominously, and dogs barked from somewhere within the darkness.  My friend, Jovan Torres, is a local who after a brief stint living with his father in long island, had recently returned to his hometown, and said he wanted to show me this place. I couldn’t imagine what kind of surprise lay beyond the rusted grey metal of the warehouse doors.

As we walk, the darkness gives way, and the water appears. It’s beautiful from a distance, and I am now eager to proceed. He greets a group of high-school aged kids, their voices and laughter echoing after us as we continue on to the edge.  I see the statue of liberty and can’t believe how close she seems. A group of men approach with fishing rods, greeting each other as though this has been a nightly summer ritual. One man pulls out a radio, and my friend and I take a seat. He tells me stories about jumping into the river as kids, and hopping from post to post.

As early as the 19^th century, Red Hook’s port made it a booming industrial center, loaning itself to the shipping and containerization industries. The Red Hook Houses, one of the largest housing projects in the city, were initially built for the Irish and Italian dockworkers and their families to live in. By the 1950’s, these initial residents began to fade and the town became one of the first Puerto Rican neighborhoods in the city.

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Carmen Torres is Jovan’s grandmother. Carmen, age 67, and her husband Antonio (”Tonio”) age 71, were both born in the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico. Antonio sunk his anchor on the shores of Red Hook in 1954, and was joined shortly by his wife Carmen in 1959.They have lived here ever since. Over the course of the couple’s 50 years in Red Hook, they have witnessed many transitions, each decade bringing with it a unique chapter. Their story reflects the history of this tightly bound community on the shore; the shared victories and tragedies, the high and low points, and the experiences that bind its members together.

Their story starts out in 1959 when 17-year-old Carmen and 21-year-old Tonio moved into the city-owned Red Hook Houses, colloquially known as the projects. “How were the projects back then?” I asked. “It was mixed, good, everybody was friendly! 4 black families, 5 spanish, Italian, Jewish, Irish,” recalls Carmen of the buildings in 1963, as the civil rights struggle raged on in other parts of the nation. “Small gangs, but no drugs yet. In 1966, the Spanish and the coloreds started moving in because the city sent them here. They sent the whites some other place.”

In the 80’s, the Torres’ decided to go into business for themselves. Their very first venture was a burger stand in the houses. Carmen recalls that her burgers were loved because they were simply cheap and good. Building upon that success, Tonio invested in an ice cream truck, also a hit. With those proceeds, the Torres’ bought a building on the corner of Walcott and Richards streets, and opened up a small store on the ground floor. This was in 1983, and the building had a price tag of $20,000.

Carmen recalls the day she fired at a man three times, intercepting an attempted robbery. The man had been menacing the store for weeks and had come again to carry out his goal. One of the bullets grazed the man’s abdomen. This would not be the last time the police would visit the store.

A few years prior in the 1970’s, the drugs came, engulfing the town like a swarm of locusts, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake.  Carmen’s son and Jovan’s dad, Advendizo (”Benny”) Torres, recalls the onset of rampant drug addiction in Red Hook: “I would use the word transformative to describe the crack, AIDS as well.  Crack was devastating to the blacks. Heroin and cocaine was devastating to the Puerto Ricans. AIDS was devastating to both.” With theft and robbery on the upswing, keeping the store open became less profitable by the day, and they were forced to close it for good in 1989. “Honest, hardworking people became crack addicts. The crack was one of the main reasons we closed the store…So much stealing… Police never wanted to do anything.”

Benny describes Red Hook as the “epitome of urban life, which today is an artists’ community. Back then, it was urban blight.” He was born in the Red Hook Houses in 1963, shortly after his parents had first called this place home, and has a way of telling a story in such a way that his audience feels a part of the scene. He recalls the assassination of MLK: “You saw the anger of a lot of blacks in the projects… People crying in the streets… I was like six years old.”

He recalls the advent of the phenomenon known as Roots. In 1977, a mini-series emerged, comprised of 12 hours airing over the course of 8 consecutive nights. It documented the history of American slavery, beginning with Kunta Kinte’s capture, and culminating with the emancipation of his descendents. “It was a transformation for people, they were fighting back now. People were changing their names to…you know…less Anglican names.”

As an adult, Benny was an active member of a community taskforce whose main focus was to bring services to the neighborhood. One of the group’s major victories came when they demanded the opening of a bank in their town. Red Hook had never had a bank, and the group felt that this was a grave disservice to its community. Teaming up with a local non-profit group which had received funding under the Clinton administration’s Community Investment Program, the group approached the then president of Independence bank, who issued them a challenge. “Get me 3,000 signatures from people in Red Hook, and I’ll open a bank,” he said. Benny and his group knocked on door after door, collecting signatures in the dead of winter. In two weeks time, they had the signatures and were ready to claim their prize. Independence bank, Red Hook’s first such establishment, opened its doors for business shortly after.

The groups’ next victory came in helping to prevent the construction of a massive waste transplant port in the shores of the community. In 1999, the Giuliani administration was considering Red Hook’s scenic waterfront as the site of an enormous trash-processing facility that would potentially replace Staten Island’s Fresh Kills landfill.[2] “During the Giuliani years, Red Hook was known as the trash capital. They were essentially going to bring all the trash from all over the city here to Red Hook, put it all on barges at the ports,” recalls Benny. After an epic battle with fellow activists and the courts, the Giuliani venture was squashed.

Among the shared victories, the denizens of Red Hook are also bound by shared tragedies that pull on the collective heart strings of a community. In 1992, a young boy ran out of P.S. 15 on the corner of Richards and Walcott Streets. Principal Patrick Daley, deeply concerned for the welfare of his students, ran out after him, into the section of the projects known as Center Mall. There, he was caught in the crossfire of three young men feuding over drugs, and was shot dead. The media sensationalized the story and soon it made national headlines.

“One can still walk in any direction from the faded bloodstain on Center Mall in the Red Hook Houses and trace the lines of devastation. Madeline Daly still won’t talk publicly about her husband’s death. Florence Russell, the mother of one of the three young men sentenced to long prison terms for the killing, replays the events with as much anguish as anyone else. Many children are still haunted by the memory,” quotes the Times. [3]

“It was huge,” recalls Benny. “It was a white principal killed by black kids, you could imagine. He truly cared for the community. I went out to his wake on Staten Island, met his wife. There were so many people from the Red Hook who went, there was no hatred.”

Jovan, Benny’s son, was a student in the elementary school at the time of the shooting. So was his friend Richard (”Richie”) Soto, age 24. The pair met in the third grade, the year of  Patrick Daly’s death.  Richie invited me into his home in the Red Hook houses, just across the street from P.S. 15. He explains that the houses had been unofficially divided into regions by the residents. The Ave cuts right down the middle, and is the equivalent of a main street. “You could get everything from drugs to prostitutes, to pawning your stuff,” quips Richie. There was Flagpole and The Front and Paradise and Poor Block. “Poor block?” I ask. “Everyone on that block was on welfare. They were the poorest of the poor,” answers Richie. The most notorious of these was the aforementioned Center Mall , described as “crazy back in the day. They cut the lights out. You wouldn’t want to get caught in Center Mall. That’s where Mr. Daley got shot.”

Two years following the tragedy, mayor Giuliani’s then wife visited P.S. 15 and was escorted around the school by Richie. He recalls singing and playing the trumpet and bells for her. The visit came after the school was the winner of the Cool School Award. “I don’t think there was really a cool school award. I think they just felt sorry that our principal was shot,” says Richie, half jokingly. On the current state of things, Richie describes Red Hook as “a lot calmer.”  The last major event was a police raid carried out on the Red Hook houses last year.

I spoke with another resident of the houses, Glen Eaddy, age 38. Glen has lived here since the age of 2. I call Glen a jack of all trades. He has played the keyboard, guitar, drums, and violin since the age of 11; produces rock and hip hop beats, is a skilled kick boxer and handball player, and in his spare time, an aspiring comedian, not to mention, screenplay writer.  Growing up, Glenn recalls that he “stayed out of trouble. I was just not into it…I kept to myself.” He is an avid handball player, and travels to play tournaments with a group from Red Hook. “We watch out for each other.”

Three generations of a single family, and many more generations of a strongly bound community, have lived their lives in this town. The stories of the residents I interviewed, all with common threads running through the fabric of their narratives, weave the tale of a community.

[2] “The Wrong Haul”: www.citylimits.org