In Brooklyn, In Search of the American Dream

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Prospect Park in Winter

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

I’d like to shift attention to my life in Brooklyn for this post. Brooklyn is a world-famous city. I saw baseball caps with the name emblazoned on them in Paris, Barcelona, Grenoble (in the French Alps), Lyon (the foodie capital of France).

The gates to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden.

I always wanted to live in Brooklyn, ever since I was a kid, sitting in my father’s car and driving across Brooklyn to my grandmother’s house on Long Island. Both my parents were born in Brooklyn, and all of my grandmother’s family. They ran a print shop on Atlantic Avenue. My subway stops every day at Atlantic Avenue, on the way to and from work. Small world.

So living in Brooklyn, my dream since childhood, has come true. It’s possible, though, that it falls in the category of “be careful what you wish for.” I walk home between the six-story pre-war brick buildings and it feels so odd, so unlike “home”. I was raised in the suburbs of Milwaukee, Reading, PA, and New Jersey. I’m used to lots of grass, trees, bushes. There’s one bush outside my Brooklyn building, a yew about my height that lists way over to the right. It has a rat hole at the foot of it. The superintendent swept some dirt into one day, while I was talking to him, and he laughed to himself.

Brooklyn is over-built, over-peopled, over-vehicled. I hear horns and sirens constantly, day and night.  There is so much garbage on the streets--plastic bags floating around, or mysterious blobs of whatever that have been ground into the street.  Lots of people means lots of dog lovers. Since quite a few of them don’t pick up after their animals, there’s lots of dog poop. I have to watch the sidewalk every moment, instead of looking at the people passing me.

In fact, I can’t look at the people I pass. They might be exchanging drugs for money and don’t want any witnesses. They might simply be touchy and take offense. They might mistake a woman looking at them as a come-on and make trouble. I’m real careful not to look too closely at anybody. Which frustrates me, because I think it detracts from my ability to be an artist. An artist looks closely and doesn’t turn away. Except me, when to do so may put my life at risk.

The weather is turning milder in New York City. Before it’s too late in the year, I want to share my pictures of winter in Brooklyn.  Of course, the pictures were taken in Prospect Park, the place I go to stay sane.  But it’s tricky, even in the park.

Last week I explored a new area and ended up at the top of a wooded hill. It was the first time ever in the park that I was out of earshot of traffic noise. I was alone, and it was a relief to not have people, strangers, always around.

And as soon as I realized it, I panicked. A woman alone is a magnet for attack. This is the reality women have to live with that most men have no inkling of.

Anyway, let’s explore Prospect Park in winter. It has so many great trees and vistas. And for you, dear blog reader, the pictures probably aren’t accompanied by the sounds of traffic.

An apartment building in the last light of the sun.

A feature known as Harry's Wall.

The little hut, just right of center, sends out smells of marijuana in all seasons.

I love winter because you can see the shapes of trees.

Another great tree in Prospect Park.

Another spectacular tree.

How about you? Do you live within earshot of car horns and sirens all day, all night? Comment below!