Terrible People Thomas Heise (bio) The house on Chauncey Street in Brooklyn's historically Black neighborhood of Bedford-Stuyvesant is the nicest place I have ever lived. Perhaps that isn't saying much, but it is. I grew up in near-poverty in a scrubby neighborhood of unpainted cinderblock houses and trailers in Florida, so merely living in New York City has always seemed to me like a luxury. I moved to the city in 1999 for graduate school, and after hopscotching around eight different apartments—most of them crummy in that special way New York living can be both crummy and too expensive at the same time—I signed the lease on the place on Chauncey, a stately, turn-of-the-century, Renaissance Revival limestone row house. Designed by the architect William Debus, it had ornate cast-iron curlicues around the entrance, a chandelier in the formal dining area with pocket doors, and an airy living room wrapped with wainscotting and a high coffered ceiling that made me feel like I was in a library. Jodi, my girlfriend at the time, and I occupied the first floor; the second was rented to two sisters, both also white and in their late twenties or early thirties, neither of whom I saw much. One was creating an app for the iPhone, and the other worked as a bartender and gave cello lessons, a mix of the tech, service, and so-called gig economies that employed many newcomers to the neighborhood. Drowning under a half-million-dollar albatross of student-loan debt, Jodi was finishing her residency in veterinary medicine; I was teaching at a university. We were all part of the great white influx, the hipster diaspora, from overpriced neighborhoods like Williamsburg, Fort Greene, or Gowanus (where I was coming from), or other parts of the city. We were fleeing rising rents and, in the process, we were making Bed-Stuy unaffordable for people who'd lived there for years, some for their entire lives. With upwards of nine thousand houses built before 1900, Bed-Stuy has one of the most extensive collections of Victorian architecture in America. The houses designed by Debus are among the most coveted. A few years before we moved to Bed-Stuy, the real-estate mogul Barbara Corcoran, famous as one of the angel investors on Shark Tank, purchased a Debus townhouse for a little under $1.5 million—a total bargain now. It was around the corner on Stuyvesant Avenue, "the nicest block" in [End Page 79] the neighborhood according to Brian Platzer in his 2017 novel Bed-Stuy Is Burning, but for my money ($2,800 a month), I preferred Chauncey for its unobstructed light. Our south-facing apartment was directly across from Fulton Park with its hundred-year-old sycamores, just seedlings when the foundations for the houses on the street were laid. Sunlight flooded through the bedroom's stained-glass windows, casting ephemeral roses on the parquet floor that would evaporate by noon. I'd watch them disappear as I sat at my writing desk. My relationship with Jodi, meanwhile, was brittle. Ever since the night I had told her in the middle of the street that I loved her and she looked me in the eyes and said, "I care about you," but couldn't bring herself to say anything more, I knew it was over. Yet, like with so much else in New York, I looked the other way, part of me breaking inside, and kept going as though nothing had happened. When I opened our bedroom windows and peered out through the bars, there were always a couple of stoic cops standing guard at the stairs to the subway station. High school kids (mostly Black and brown) bouncing around in their high-tops. Commuters (mostly white) holding their shoulder bags in one hand, coffee in the other. Old-timers playing cards. Occasionally someone out of his mind on K2 or something else screaming at the sky. And a police car parked on Fulton's cobblestones like it owned the place, its blue eyes spinning in circles. Another day in the life of New York's most rapidly gentrifying neighborhood...
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