Only Three People Shot At West Indian Day Parade. This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Crown Heights
Last year, at least five people -- including a cop -- were shot at the parade.
The Crown Heights section of Brooklyn is a cultural cross section that epitomizes what makes New York New York. Caribbean islanders coexist with Orthodox Jews in a cultural (ahem) melting pot that just screams "you stay out of our way, we'll stay out of yours." This unspoken agreement has only produced one noteworthy riot.
As a current Crown Heights resident, I can honestly say that it's a great place to live -- assuming you're into guns, gangs, violence, and the occasional sexual assault. Below I will submit to you a few of my favorite tales from the 'hood.
*Cocaine And Salad: How To Bulk Up In Crown Heights:
|I opted to only go with the lettuce.|
As a recovering "skinny-ass white boy," the first person I met after moving to the culturally rich neighborhood was a woman we'll call Karen, a 70-ish-year-old Caribbean islander, who -- after seeing my rather large black lab mix, "Jim" -- informed me that "Oh, hellll no! We don't need no cops in the building."
That's right, Karen assumed I was a K-9 cop sent in by the feds to do undercover work in the neighborhood -- which is exactly what she told everyone who lives in my building. Needless to say, I was not the building's most popular resident.
Karen proceeded to scowl at me and say "skinny-ass white boy" under her breath every time we passed each other in the building. This went on for months.
Then, a peace offering:
About 1 a.m. on a Tuesday, there was a knock on my door. It was Karen, who took it upon herself to tell me I looked skinny and needed to eat. She came back five minutes later with a bag of lettuce -- and then informed me that if I needed cocaine, she could get it.
Cocaine and salad might seem like an odd way to bulk up, but I interpreted the information as a test to determine whether I was the undercover narc she'd assumed I was. I passed the test -- to her surprise, I'm sure, she wasn't arrested, and I had salad every day for the next week.
Two weeks ago, Karen asked if I would lend her five bucks. I will never see that five bucks ever again.
*Weed and Hand Guns Don't Mix:
My next door neighbor is a 20-year-old admitted member of the "Crips" street gang, who -- like everyone else in my building -- was under the impression that I was an undercover cop.
Regardless, this supposed "Crip," whom we'll call Kevin, smoked weed right in front of my door -- where he often sleeps when his grandmother throws him out of his apartment -- just about every day. Throwing caution to the wind, I invited him in one day, and we became fast friends. He told me about life in the 'hood, I told him about being a skinny-ass white boy.
Kevin and my dog seemed to like each other, so -- this time hurling caution to the wind -- I told Kevin he could stay at my apartment while I went out of town one weekend if he would look after the pooch. My conditions: He could have a few girls over, but none of his gangster buddies.
Upon my return, the first person I saw in the elevator was Karen, who promptly told me that she'd seen Kevin in my apartment.
"Did he have any guys over?" I asked.
"No, just a few girls," she responded, before telling me that he took the dog outside several times while I was gone.
So while attempting to rat out Kevin, Karen inadvertently confirmed that he did everything I asked him to do. When I got back to the apartment, it was sparkling -- Kevin had done the dishes, vacuumed, and dusted better than I ever could.
Two weeks later, I was going out of town again, and made the same deal with Kevin. When I returned two days later -- slightly earlier than Kevin or I had anticipated -- the coffee table pictured below is what I found.
|Just when you think you've found a trustworthy dog-sitter, he shoots himself in the leg while sitting on your couch.|
When Kevin returned from playing basketball, I explained that -- given the amount of weed he smokes -- perhaps owning a gun isn't the best idea and asked that he not have it on him when he's in my apartment.
Two weeks later -- while I was again not home -- Kevin shot himself in the leg while sitting on my couch. I now have a bullet hole in my faux-leather sofa and am in desperate need of a dog-sitter.
Needless to say, I've been calling Kevin "Plaxico" ever since.
*Militant Marvin and the Power Of Love:
One of Crown Heights' local treasures is a man I've affectionately dubbed "Militant Marvin."
Marvin spends his days marching up and down Utica Avenue -- dressed in flashy, bright clothes -- screaming at cars while carrying several large flags.
About two months ago, Marvin had put himself -- and his flags -- in front of a police van that was trying to drive north on Utica.
"What's the black and white password," Marvin screamed at the officer inside the van.
Not knowing a password was required to drive down Utica Avenue, the officer yelled for Marvin to get out of the way. When he refused, the officer started preparing for what I figured was going to be some good ol' fashioned police brutality.
Clutching his baton, the officer got out of the van and again told Marvin to move. Marvin, however, wasn't going anywhere without the password.
As the cop appeared to reach his breaking point, a local business owner came running out of a store to give the officer the password, which is -- simply -- "love."
After winning the battle by forcing the officer to repeat the password, Marvin retreated to the safety of the sidewalk.
Moral of the story: Marvin will not shake your hand, only your foot (as I learned one night while walking my dog), and if you find yourself stuck in traffic on Utica Avenue, "love" is the answer.
So for any potential new residents of Crown Heights, this is what you can expect: geriatric cocaine peddlers who think you're a cop, in-house shootings by your dog-sitter, and traffic delays caused by a militant love machine -- but that's only when you're not dodging bullets at the West Indian Day parade and avoiding potentially fatal stabbings.