In the Weeds

by Daniel Browne

  * * *

  Community Board 3 met in a low-ceilinged office space above the Applebee’s on Fulton Street, a far cry from the auditorium where Vivienne faced the most active of her well-heeled constituents. The room was jammed with concerned citizens, standing room only, with board members seated behind three long folding tables arranged in a horseshoe. The only white people were Seth, Elliot, and me. There was one bodybuilder type who was paler than us, but I was pretty sure he was albino.

  Fortunately, our delegation had come with an ambassador: Winston was stepping in for Jack, who wouldn’t be joining us, after all. We didn’t find out until we arrived at the meeting, and Winston had no explanation for us, but we were so relieved to have him in our corner, we weren’t even put out. He was wearing a Comandante Biggie T-shirt: the Notorious B.I.G. with epaulettes and a Che cap.

  Tonight was the Parks, Recreation, Arts & Culture committee’s show, and we were the second item on the agenda. The first was a review of various applications for block parties and street festivals, and it was hard to follow. What I gathered was this: Apparently, there can only be a certain number of block parties in a given district on a given day, and now that spring was upon us, the competition was fierce. Certain upstart blocks had dared to apply for the same day as other blocks with longer-running, better-established parties. A woman with speckled skin and reddish hair suggested with a vaguely Caribbean lilt that the upstarts had no respect for history. Her counterpart on Team Upstart wasn’t hearing that. A more energetic woman, her copious beaded braids danced when she spoke.

  “This ain’t about what someone was doing thirty years ago, Bernice. This is about the young people. We’re always saying there’s nothing positive for the young people to do. How are we supposed to get them off the corner with the same tired old booths selling hair oil and tube socks?”

  That earned a few titters of recognition. Bernice wanted to respond, but the upstart was prepared to filibuster. “Poetry slam, African dance, basketball tournament. That’s what we’re proposing.”

  Entertaining stuff. You didn’t get this kind of turf war in Vivienne’s district, where a spring party was more likely to involve a ballroom than a bounce house, and “the young people” included anyone not collecting social security. The chair of the committee, on the other hand, seemed less than enthralled. Portly with a silent movie villain’s pencil mustache and sweat beading on his bald pate, he interrupted to ask the upstart if she’d actually talked to any teens to gauge their enthusiasm for poetry slams and African dance.

  “No disrespect, Suzette, but these young people today, they may not be any more interested in poetry than they are in tube socks.”

  There were some sighs and tsks from the assembly. These kids today...

  “You tell ’em Jay-Z is a poet, they’ll come.”

  Old guard Bernice made a face like she’d caught a whiff of something funky. “Might as well have a crack-dealing contest.”

  The chairman didn’t seem convinced by either side. He moved to postpone the vote so the committee could review the applications more carefully. He was seconded by the maybe-albino, and the combatants withdrew grumbling to their corners.

  Our turn. Winston gave us the signal, and we shuffled up through the crowd to face the committee. We waited while the chairman blotted his glistening brow with a hanky, to little effect. He eyed the hanky as if it might be defective before giving up altogether and making the introductions.

  “A lot of you know Winston. He’s always coming around bugging us for one thing or another.”

  A chorus of chuckles, and a good-sport smile from Winston.

  “He’s here tonight with these gentlemen from”—he consulted his notes—“Raise the Roof Farms to talk about a new program they’re doing with the Parks Department.”

  Winston half turned so he could address both the committee and the audience. He spoke just as softly as he did in one-on-one conversation; several of the older folks had to lean in to hear. “Thanks to all of you for having us here tonight. As the chairman said, you all know me. Bed-Stuy has some of the oldest and most progressive gardens in the city. I know it seems like I’m always hanging around, but really I’m just trying to keep up with y’all.”

  “No harm in trying, son,” someone shouted. All around us, I could see shoulders loosening and faces opening. Whatever Jack’s contribution might have been, we couldn’t have asked for a better representative than Winston.

  “I want to take a second to recognize Miss Lorraine, who’s joining us tonight. Miss Lorraine has been gardening over on Lafayette for, what, thirty years?”

  All eyes turned to a small, plump-faced, turtlenecked woman, her silver hair pulled back in an unforgiving bun. “Forty,” she said, her voice as taut as her ’do.

  “Forty years,” Winston marveled, shaking his head. “And I know some of you have been a part of this movement for nearly as long. These men here are the next generation of community gardeners, and they’re looking to you for inspiration and guidance. I’ll let them explain their vision and then give you a chance to share your wisdom with them.”

  I was up first. We’d agreed to start with my food desert bit, but it didn’t seem to be making much of an impression on the good people of CB3. Should have led with the kids. I decided to cut it short and turn the floor over to Elliot, but if he managed to win them over, they didn’t show it. Seth wrapped up with a presentation of the latest schematics, and he certainly gave it the old college try. He was honored to add to the community’s rich tradition of green activism, humbled by the responsibility, excited to take counsel from Miss Lorraine and her apostles. Whether the feeling was mutual was hard to tell; Miss Lorraine’s face didn’t move once during the presentation. It’s possible the torque of her bun limited her range of expression.

  Throughout our presentation, the chairman squinted at us as if we were specks in the distance.

  “I didn’t hear you mention where this Peter’s Place is at. Can’t say I’m familiar.”

  We told him the cross streets, which got a blank look. So we referenced the Broadway Triangle; that didn’t seem to do the trick either. Finally, we name-checked the hospital and the projects, and the chairman nodded impatiently.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. And you say this is Peter’s Place? Anybody know a Peter lives down in Marcy Houses?”

  I started to explain that no one could remember the exact origins of the name, but he cut me off. “That was a joke, son.”

  I could feel the heat on my ears and neck.

  “You know, this area you’re talking about is more Williamsburg than Bed-Stuy. Have you got the folks in District 1 with you?”

  I said that, since the proposed site was actually in District 3, we thought it important to come here first and consult the community board with jurisdiction. The reasonableness of this explanation didn’t seem to move the chairman.

  “I understand, but there’s jurisdiction and then there’s what we call facts on the ground. You follow?”

  I didn’t. Were we talking about a little urban renewal project in Brooklyn or negotiating peace between the Israelis and Palestinians?

  A hand shot up. It belonged to Suzette, the upstart. She didn’t wait for the chairman to recognize her. “I have to say, I’m disturbed by what I’m hearing. The young people in this community—our young people—they need support, they need programs, they need positive outlets. So why are we talking about sending our precious resources to Williamsburg?”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd, a sleeper stirred by an upsetting dream. Winston’s eyes were hooded. I knew a bureaucrat feigning contemplation when I saw one.

  “We’re actually not talking about sending resources outside the district,” I said. “The farm is going to be inside your district.”

  Suzette bowed up, her hands on her hips. “Not unless we say it is.”

  The tendon in my jaw was so tight, I was afraid it might snap. “That’s why we’re here.” I
left out the “obviously.”

  Elliot took the wheel and tried to steer us away from the ditch. He pointed out that we weren’t asking for any community resources. The beauty of the project was that we’d already raised outside funding and would be investing it in the community.

  “In Williamsburg,” Suzette said.

  Seth’s turn. Maybe he could honor and humble our way out of this shit show.

  “What I’m hearing is that the folks in this room don’t feel a sense of connection with the folks in the Triangle,” he said. “Part of what we’re trying to do at Green ’Burgs is help make those connections. That’s why I’m so excited about this project. It’s a chance to build a bridge between communities. And since the school we’re partnering with is a charter, kids and families from neighborhoods across the city are going to benefit.”

  My stomach dropped. Elliot stared straight ahead, a mutineer about to walk the plank. I really thought Seth had it there for a second with his sense of connection and his bridge between communities; I could see on his face that he did, too. Poor bastard didn’t even realize he’d said the magic word.

  I swear Suzette’s eyes lit up. “So all these resources you’re talking about, they’re not even going to a public school?”

  Seth started to answer, then stopped. He was in over his head. Elliot pointed out that charter schools are technically public and mentioned the District 75 school co-located with Begin to Win. But it all came out sounding like a sigh.

  Suzette cut him off. “A charter is a charter. Maybe you don’t know the history—”

  We did, but there was no stopping her. “We’re tired of outsiders taking over our school buildings, skimming from our school budgets.”

  “Tell ’em, sister.” This from Old Guard Bernice. The block party wars were apparently on hold. To us she said, “You three better go back to the people who sent you and let them know Bed-Stuy still stands up for community schools.”

  “Nobody sent us,” I said.

  Bernice didn’t seem convinced. “Mm-hmm.”

  The chairman coughed and shuffled his papers. He may not have been sympathetic to us, but he didn’t seem eager for a disquisition on charter schools either. “I’d like to hear what Miss Lorraine has to say. Miss Lorraine?”

  Miss Lorraine stood slowly; Winston roused himself to give her a hand. She brushed him off, stoking the air of dignity about her. When all eyes had shifted her way, she said, her voice clear, if a little shaky, “I have a question for these young men.”

  “Go right ahead,” the chairman said. We waited.

  “You want to put your garden in a handball court?”

  “An abandoned handball court,” I said.

  “Then why are you calling yourself Raise the Roof?”

  There was laughter all around us, led by the chairman’s high-pitched giggle, and even though we were the butt of the joke, we laughed along with everyone else because it seemed to release some of the tension that had been building in the room. The only one who wasn’t laughing, or even smiling, was Miss Lorraine. Here was our chance for redemption, and I seized it. I told her it was an excellent question and explained that, while our original intention had been to build on the roof of the school, we wanted to ensure that the entire community, not just the students of Begin to Win, could participate. By that point, we’d grown attached to the name.

  “It’s catchy,” the chairman said. “I’ll give you that.”

  I probably should have just quit while I was ahead, but now that the fight or flight instinct was ebbing, I was starting to think clearly again, and I finally knew what to say. I could practically see the words dangling in front of me.

  “Actually, the main reason we’re keeping the name is that we still plan to put farms on rooftops...and in schoolyards and vacant lots, wherever people will have us. I may not have been clear about this before.”

  Bernice knit her brow. “You weren’t.”

  “I apologize for that. The project we presented to you is a pilot. We’re partnering with a charter school in an isolated location so we can work out all the kinks, make the model as strong as it can be, and then spread it to Bed-Stuy and Brownsville and Flatbush. If we can get it right in the Triangle, that means a bigger, better program for your kids in the future.”

  Suzette shook her head, rattling her beads. “We hear what you’re saying, and we’ve heard it all before. Our young people can’t wait anymore. The future is now.”

  The chairman made a placating gesture, like he was patting her shoulder from across the room. “How long before you can start working with one of the public schools in Bed-Stuy?”

  “If we can get the pilot off the ground in time for the growing season, we’ll be back here again before the end of the year.”

  “That a promise?”

  I paused to collect myself. Elliot and Seth were watching me along with everyone else. I hoped I was only the one who could hear my shallow breathing.

  “That’s a promise.”

  The chairman turned to Winston. “And you’re prepared to back that up?”

  I could barely endure the suspense as Winston languidly emerged from the depths of himself.

  “Right now, Parks’ commitment is to the project in the Triangle,” he said. “But you all know what can happen when you speak with one voice.”

  A righteous hum rippled through the crowd.

  “So I recommend you accommodate these gentlemen and then hold them accountable.”

  “You can count on that,” Suzette said. “Accommodation is one thing. You want our blessing? It’s going to take a lot more than what we heard tonight.”

  Bernice nodded. “Around here, we go by deeds, not words.”

  The chairman nodded, too, liking the sound of that. Being an elected official, though, he wasn’t through covering his ass. Or, as those of us in the biz like to call it, consensus-building.

  “Miss Lorraine?”

  Miss Lorraine was still standing, wobbling ever so slightly. “When I first started with the Green Guerrillas, we didn’t do so much talking. For heaven’s sake, it’s just a fucking garden.”

  * * *

  The meeting ended in anti-climax. Since we didn’t really need the board’s approval, there was nothing for them to vote on. Instead, the chairman just thanked everyone for their input and advised us to discuss our plans with Community Board 1 in Williamsburg and keep both boards up to speed on our progress. Then he called it a night.

  In the Green ’Burgs van on the way back to our own corner of Brooklyn, my head was swimming, my armpits clammy. We’d gotten out alive, but I felt hollowed out. Seth wasn’t thrilled either, especially with his own contribution.

  “Sorry, guys. I thought charter schools were popular in black neighborhoods.”

  Elliot shrugged. “Nice to know there’s at least one community board that isn’t stacked with ringers.”

  “I promise to leave the politics to you from now on,” Seth said. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit out the meeting with CB1.”

  “No more meetings.” The voice I heard didn’t sound like me, but I was past caring. Maybe this was the new me talking.

  “I hear you,” Seth said. “But the man was clear. He expects us to do our due diligence.”

  “Fuck that.”

  We drove on in silence for a minute or two. Seth kept his eyes on the road. Elliot was riding shotgun. I was in the back, so I couldn’t see their reactions.

  “Just so I understand,” Seth said, “you don’t think it’s a good idea for us to talk to the people who have a real stake in the Triangle?”

  At age thirty, I somehow found myself with my very own Jewish mother.

  “The Triangle isn’t in District 1! It’s in District 3!” I said. “What just happened, that kangaroo court—that was our due diligence! Is it our problem they don’t know what the fuck is going on in their own district?”

  Seth lifted his hands off the wheel like he was placating a madman. “Hey, I
’m with you. I just want to make sure we’ve got the community on our side.”

  “What community? Seriously, we’ve been out there a dozen times now. Have you seen any community? All I’ve seen is a tenement full of hipsters, and they love us already.”

  “Hipsters do love themselves a farm,” Elliot said.

  “We’ve got the neighbors. We’ve got the school. We’ve got the city, which owns the land. What are we waiting for? You heard Miss Lorraine. Let’s build the fucking thing already!”

  We stopped at a red, and Seth twisted around to face me. “I’m just the hired help. So you tell me. Is that really how you want to play this?”

  Funny how life is: Watching Vivienne bumble through press conferences and town halls over the years, I was quick to wince at every botched talking point and missed opportunity. Now, flattened by my trip through the CB3 ringer, I understood with blazing clarity what I’d never bothered to consider before: Vivienne may not have been the most golden-tongued or sure-footed pol, but she was willing to stand up in public and make herself a target. Her peers in government were amoral apparatchiks, her constituents bottomless pits of grievance; the press jumped at the slightest chance to depict her as a ditzy dowager. And yet for some reason—call it noblesse oblige or just a stubborn streak—she kept showing up and taking their shit. Elliot and I did our best to prep her, but once she hit that podium, she was on her own. Only now could I fully appreciate how tough she had to be.

  But that didn’t mean I wanted to follow in her footsteps. For some goofy reason, I’d been under the impression that getting out of politics meant, you know, getting out of politics. Instead, this project had been nothing but politics so far, all fast talk and compromises. We’d been at it for less than two months, and we’d already bent our principles by working with a charter school; given in to the Schlossers’ self-serving whims, losing our grant from Tommy Brutti in the process; struck a distasteful deal with the landlord next door; and pandered to Suzette and Bernice, promising them a farm of their own. The way I saw it, enough was enough. If we didn’t cut out the horse-trading and get some dirt under our nails, I might as well slink back to the world of rumpled suits, manila folders, and lunch buses.