Blues, haints and bayous: snippets from the Deep South: Grunge, squats and rubble

Peter Stuyvesant once owned the land that our hotel is on, and this morning, when we left it, and took the bus south ten blocks, the land there, still was part of his bouwerij, his farm. In fact his body lies in a vault at St Mark’s-in-the-Bowery, just a street away, so Peter Stuyvesant came to Manhattan to stay. He could never have guessed, though, that multi-story buildings would cover all areas of his farmland, let alone the entire island he came here to govern.

Today we are exploring the East Village. Greenwich Village is west at our backs, and Lower Manhattan and Battery Park are to the south of us. This little corner of the world was given away, sold off by Stuyvesant’s descendants as the push for more land to the north became necessary.

Here, settled some of the Irish overflow from Hell’s Kitchen, as is evidenced by their church of St Bridgid’s. And, here, too, many German immigrants moved. Nearly 50,000 over time. In fact so many Germans came to this area that for a time it was called Kleindeutchland, Little Germany. They formed the largest group of Germans outside Germany, and their influence on many of the buildings, still standing, is evident: little touches of the baroque: angels and philosophers adorning.

A disaster struck the German community, though. One gorgeous Sunday morning much of the congregation of St Mark’s Evangelical Church headed off on the General Slocum steamship for a day's picnic on a beach over the other side of the East River. They did not come back. The steamship caught fire not long after embarkation, and some 1200 of the congregation died in the disaster, decimating the German population, who tended, after that, to not want to stay here. Many moved further north to settle.

Development meant reclamation. The city workers clawed back as much land as they could from the water's edge, throwing rubble into the East River in order to build a foundation strong enough for greenspace, and for the Franklin Delaware Roosevelt parkway, which carries traffic north and south to this day. The bricks and rocks beneath it came from the rubble cleared out of London after World War 11. Much of it was first used as ballast in ships coming across to America. Then was dumped here as much needed landfill. I hope the park and road builders included notes in time capsules for future archaeologists, otherwise future excavations might prove fairly confusing.

The neighbourhood grew in response to worker’s housing needs, with low set walk ups and elevator buildings set along the streets. Over time it became noted for affordable rent and cheap eats, so started attracting a counter culture. First came the beats, then the hippies, then the punks. Then the skinheads.

Yoko Ono regularly held performances in one of the theatres along the main drag here in St Mark’s Place. Andy Warhol also introduced the Velvet Underground, and Abbie Hoffman started the Yippee movement. The things we remember from way back. The Hare Krishna movement started in North America around a tree in the park which was used as a chanting circle.

Artists, musicians and the alternative set of thinkers and talkers occupied many interesting little cafes. Street art came to decorate the bare brick walls. Much of it, quite stunning. One artist, Jim Power, a homeless man, who has been living on the streets here since 1985, has over time, decorated many surfaces, but especially the base of the local lampposts, with his own Gaudi-like china mosaics, creating a little history of the ‘burb. He is called “Mosaic Man”.

The riots this lamp post records in 1988, were not the first, nor will they be the last in the community. But they were indicative of the times. The whole neighbourhood had decayed with little or no funds being injected into the community from city hall. Rents had become prohibitive, cheap housing non-existent. The central square of greenery, Tomkins Park, had become thick with drug pushers and skinheads and the homeless, who monopolised most of the park as their abode. The city, wanting some control, imposed a curfew of 1am, trying to clean it all up. Riots broke out, exploded, with full blown attacks on Christodora house, a sixteen story high-rise, symbolic of a sense of security, a homeplace, that many of these angry street rioters did not have.

The whole area has a bit of a reputation for anarchy. Rents barely covered the maintenance, so many of the high rises mysteriously burned down, leaving great gaps where the building once stood in the street. The city took over these spaces.

Then the community negotiated for their use with the city, building community gardens in many of them: alternative ones with a grungy interesting look. Many are decorated with pink plastic flamingoes, pop-can whirlygigs, and chipped frisbees cut into flowers. Recycling what is on the streets as garden art.

We chatted to some of the locals who told us that community folk get a little funding from the city if they follow some agreed rules, like regular maintenance of the community garden spaces, and keeping them accessible on fine weekends for the public to use. Many locals are growing fresh herbs and flowers on these dusty city lots that once had been torched. Some ninety such garden plots in this tiny community are said to exist.

One of the gardens has become a kind of Men’s Shed and Domino’s Club for a happy group of Puerto Ricans who have, in recent times, moved into several of the streets of the village, we were told. The women were sunning themselves in their space at the back of the garden when we were visiting. The men had their shed out the front, facing the street, so they could chat to passers-by. Or protect.

Some of the burned out buildings have been taken over by squatters. Many have spent decades in their squats and have become very politically active, employing lawyers, to ensure that now, after all this time, their right to stay is not taken away from them. Some have repaired hulks of buildings and turned them from burned out ruins into functioning homes again. Some have entered agreements with the city whereby they now are able to own their squats.

The homeless are here, still, today. They occupy a big corner of the park, their plastic bags and possessions laid out in the sun, airing, on this gorgeous sunny day. Many of them are sitting, just chatting to each other: friends. Some are playing cards. They stick together, closely.

I had a pencilled note on this walk in my research folder, reminding myself to leave this walk to the end, as I was not sure how interested we would really be in it, but it has turned out to be one of our favourite walks in all of New York city. One of our favourite suburbs.

The sun was out. The locals were relaxed and smiling. The restaurants interesting in ways that we haven’t found elsewhere in New York—eggplant souffle we found on a menu, not burgers. How about that! The coffee, too, was tangy and memorable the way we like it, not anaemic and flavourless the way most others are served. So, all things were right with our world while we walked. Plus, the entire suburb reminded us of one of our favourite suburbs back home, West End, in Brisbane. They are quite similar. Unusual. Cheerful. Slightly anarchic. Long may it live in peace. We will remember it well.