I’m from the projects. A PJ girl born in the heart – the aching heart – of Brooklyn. Brownsville . . . once a middle income, kishka loving, sawdust on the deli floor, mamas and daddies living together raising children who walked to school and came home for lunches, candy stores selling penny candy next door to the Saturday matinee movies – double feature and a cartoon intermission – neighbors’ doors wide open to let in the fresh air and “Stop slamming that door,” everyone wants to move there neighborhood.
It stopped being that a long time ago.
So what! So, too bad! So, Levit said move to Levittown, own your own swing in the back yard and a white picket fence. No coloreds allowed.
So, you’re stuck.
So, there’s a hiring freeze.
So, Welfare said, “We can help . . . if you self-destruct.”
So, no more daddies, no more working families, no more know thy neighbor, no more love, no more way out.
That was fast. That was predictable. That was totally unnecessary.
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