A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Whenever someone asks me what my favorite book is, I inevitably start to mumble something like "Well, there are so many, I couldn't possibly choose one" or "I don't know, but I like so-and-so's books" or whatever. Because honestly, I hate that question. I have read so many books and have liked certain types of books at different points in my life. In high school, I loved The Bell Jar. My junior year, Literature class I think, we had to "pick apart" a poem, and I chose one by Sylvia Plath about comparing her daddy to a Nazi. I read all of her collected poems and took voracious notes. I learned all about her sad life. I even painted a picture of her...I was obsessed, I tell you! Like tons of other girls at that point in life when they discover Plath's madness and that, really, your life isn't all that bad.

Then, the fall of my freshman year of college when I worked in an antique store, I read Sylvia Plath's unexpurgated journals -- actually, I started to read it, but I became so depressed I had to stop.

I haven't read any Sylvia Plath in awhile.

I've devoured the feminist, egotistical kicks of Anais Nin, the libertinism of Henry Miller and Marquis de Sade, the Jewishness of Philip Roth, the live-free-do-what-you-want vibes of Ginsberg and Kerouac and Fariña, and I've loved them all at different times.

But what I always go back to, and what I'll say is my favorite book, is one my grandma gave me when I was -- I don't know how old I was, maybe 12 or 13 -- by a writer named Betty Smith. She wrote a coming-of-age novel about a girl in Brooklyn in the 1910s. If anyone remembers me when I was a nerdy, quiet pre-teen, you might remember that I was crazy about history. That was all I read--historical fiction. For the longest time I wished I could've lived in the "Laura Ingalls Wilder days" and churned my own butter and worn big petticoats. (I don't think like that anymore, thank God.)

This is the copy my grandma gave me. See how worn the spine is? The plastic film that protects the cover is peeling, wrinkled, the edges are curled. The pages are dog-eared and there are some underlined sentences sprinkled within. This book has come with me every move.

I think the reason why I like it so much is that Francie, the protagonist, reminds me of me when I was her age (the novel follows her from age 11 to 16, though it does jump to before she was born at times). Francie is quiet, shy, and wonders about the lives of the people around her. Her favorite thing to do on Saturdays is sit on the fire escape with a book and a bag of peppermint candy. She loves the library and wants to read every single book in it and goes through the books in alphabetical order. She adores school and is very good in her English and composition classes and wants to be a writer.

But unlike me, Francie grows up very poor in the slums of Williamsburg with an alcoholic father and a mother who can't help but love Francie's little brother Neeley more than she loves Francie.

Anyway, now that I live in Brooklyn on the fringes of Williamsburg, I wanted to read the book again. When Tyler first lived here a few years ago, I sent this book to him thinking he might enjoy that it took place in Brooklyn. I had no idea that the reason Tyler liked it so much was that everything takes place right in this neighborhood. And now I love it even more.



Montrose Avenue -- once filled with Italians! Now housing me, Tyler, and Niles. Scholes and Meserole, Johnson, Seigel, Moore, McKibbin -- these are all streets that surround us. This was our hood 100 years ago! These streets are the streets "Francie" walked. It makes my favorite story that much richer.

What's amazing is that less than 15 years ago, Williamsburg -- one of the hippest hipsterest places in America (but maybe not as bad as Portland) -- was the slums. For years. Once the Williamsburg Bridge was built in 1903, an influx of immigrants from the Lower East Side poured in and many of the wealthy families living in the mansions and brownstones fled. This is Williamsburg as Francie would've seen it:

(Pictures from NYC Architecture -- you can see more photos there.)

Towards the end, Francie exclaims that Brooklyn is really the greatest place in the world. No other place is like it. It's dirty, it's poor, but it's hers and she couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

I'm starting to adopt that mindset. Not the greatest place in the WORLD, but a place that has its own beauty. I love coming back to my quiet(er) streets after pushing my way through the hectic bustle of Manhattan. It's a nice transition from Omaha. I think if we had moved to Manhattan it would've been such a shock for me that I would've hated it and cried every day. But here there are trees, and fewer people on the sidewalk, and the buildings are smaller, more residential. It's great.

On a side note, if any of you are looking for a good book to read this summer, pick up A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and think of us!