Disappointment.
I started my serious search for housing in the City today; our broker showed us five properties between 11am and 3pm, and by the time she left us, my mind was made up that we should live in Spanish Harlem.
The property that won my affections is located up at 101st Street, and it is gorgeous, brand-new, full of spectacular amenities, spacious beyond belief, and well within our budget for rent. And there is even a parole transition program next door. As the afternoon wore on, my excitement grew, and I could just see all the pieces fitting together — within two weeks I could be living super-close to Third Brother and Fourth Brother (they’d be just a few streets south), waking up in my sunny and gigantic room in a gorgeous new apartment, and padding downstairs on alternating Saturday mornings to volunteer with the parole transition program. And with some time, I’d even make friends with the locals, the hard-working blue-collar folk who called Spanish Harlem home for decades before the young professionals moved in. It would be a life-enriching experience for me, and a welcome haven from the immaculate and unrealistically-sanitized professional world that will inevitably own the majority of my waking hours.
My roommate was concerned about the area, though. SpaHa has a reputation for having a relatively high crime rate compared with the rest of Manhattan, though the NYPD stats show that the numbers for all major crimes have been coming down steadily over the last few years. We spent the afternoon crunching numbers and crime rates for various precincts around the City, and I eventually concluded that the area has become safe enough even for a single young professional woman like myself.
Still, due diligence required that we actually go out and investigate the area again at night. So after dinner, the double cousin joined my roommate and me for a trek uptown to SpaHa. We arrived around 11pm, and spent the next forty-five minutes making our way up to 101st Street from the 96th St subway station. Along the way, we stopped in at a Chinese restaurant, a convenience store manned by two Hispanic men, a 24-hour gas station staffed by two African-Americans and a self-described “white guy,” and the police station, where we conducted an extensive inquiry with the 23rd Precinct cops on duty. And I called both the Third and Fourth Brothers to get their opinions.
Some people said outright that the area was bad, but they also were the people who indicated various racial prejudices (interestingly, every race blamed those of other races). Others said that if we minded our own business and were careful not to be texting or Blackberrying while walking down the street, we’d be all right as the locals got to recognize our faces. One guy named Bob welcomed us to the neighborhood and said it was just fine as long as we stayed away from 103rd Street. My main MO involved asking whether any of these guys would let their kid sisters live in the area. Fourth Brother, the jumpiest in the clan, said he would let his sister live there if the property was spectacular (which it is) and there was nothing comparable in price or quality elsewhere (which there isn’t). But a cop said flat-out, “No,” even though he also indicated that the dangers are more perceived than actual, more figments of psychology and trained fear rather than tangible threats.
In the end, my roommate balked at the possibility of living in Spanish Harlem. Although I felt comfortable enough with the area, I know I must cede for her sake. Months ago, we made an agreement to live together, and if our positions were reversed, I would likewise hope for her grace on this issue. BUT — none of that changes the fact that I’m really disappointed.
Coming back to midtown on the subway, back to the streets that are marked “safe” and “harmless,” I grew increasingly frustrated and upset. This isn’t my roommate’s fault, so I waited until she and I parted before processing all of this with SK, who sides more with her and thinks that I’m the one with unreasonable standards. He keeps saying that the average Manhattan professional “isn’t signing up for living in Spanish Harlem,” because they earn big bucks for a reason — to move down south to the cooler, hipper parts of the island, and that he understands my desire to live in and among “real people,” but that I should anticipate that other people won’t be as keen on the idea.
I know he is right, at some level. But it disappoints me. And I think that is the root cause of my frustration at this point. This is more than just a point about housing; I am disappointed at other, deeper issues.
I’m disappointed that fear has won again. I feel like maybe crime would go down a little more if we stopped being afraid of communities… if we invested in them rather than running away from them. And I’m disappointed with how we measure danger. One of the talking points during our little walk-through interview today was how harassment might be an issue up in SpaHa. Yet as I returned to Midtown this evening, we passed by some drunk guys, and I remembered many times in college when I got a little freaked out by overly-inebriated folks who walked by. You never knew what they would do or say. And here in Midtown, at midnight, that’s normal here in Manhattan. So what’s the difference between an African-American or Hispanic man making a pass at a woman in Spanish Harlem, and a drunk white guy making a pass at a woman in Midtown? Why the double standard? Why is the former so much more “dangerous” and fear-inspiring than the latter?
If there’s one thing I learned during my stint as a defense attorney last year, it’s that people are people. I spent five months visiting clients and witnesses who live in much worse conditions than those that we saw (and could have chosen to live in) today. I’ve gone into those neighborhoods, and spoken with fathers, mothers, brothers, cousins, and girlfriends, and in the end, … they’re all just people. And yes, crap happens. Bad things happen. Dangerous things happen. And I’m not interested in inviting danger to my front door or becoming a martyr, but… I guess I just feel like living in Spanish Harlem at this particular location wouldn’t constitute an unreasonable risk. And I wanted to live close to the real world — a much more real world than what Midtown has to offer.
Along those lines, I feel like I’m letting myself down. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the rest of the City, and it’s not like I don’t realize that I enjoy the benefits and privileges of being a well-paid professional in Manhattan, of all places. But even if my work and calling requires a stint in this occupation, it doesn’t mean that the entirety of my life must reflect and buy into the lifestyle and community that ordinarily accompany the job. What if I don’t want all those “perks”? What if I want an opportunity to stay in touch with reality?
…
I’ve been chatting online with GW for a while about this and the whole housing thing, and he says, “Don’t settle.” Two hours ago, I was ready to throw in the towel and settle. Now…maybe not, after all. Though I can guarantee you that I won’t end up anywhere nearly as cool as Spanish Harlem. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.