By Doug Black

I’m sitting in a windowless room in a back annex of Precinct 77 holding a frozen bag of peas to the base of my skull. There’s no ice at Precinct 77. Florescent bulbs cast flickering light on the cinderblock walls and scuffed linoleum while I look over a police officer’s shoulder at six faces on a dim computer screen—all unhappy black men. Having just been beaten and robbed outside of my apartment, I’m scanning mugshots for the five or six attackers. It’s an exercise in futility; by the time I realized I was being mugged, all I could see was the sidewalk. The officers who picked me up said that people’s belongings rarely turn up, whether they catch the thieves or not. In fact, they’re surprised I’d even stayed to look at mugshots; most people in my situation just accept their fate and move on. 

Looking at the strange faces, questions shoot through my brain. Could I have avoided this? Was it my fault? Was I stupid to move here a month ago?

Like most people outside of New York, I knew little about Crown Heights aside from the riots 15 years ago. The neighborhood had erupted into a four-day clash between the area’s Hasidic Jew and African American populations that marked the height of racial tensions in the economically depressed corner of Brooklyn. But—as every local politician will have you know—things change. The Giuliani years made it OK to walk the streets again, and New York is actually safe. The safest big city in the country, no less, for the second time running, according to the FBI’s “Crime in the United States” report released in September.

 Crown Heights is a perfect example of this transformation. It has undergone a similarly miraculous change, as Brooklyn real estate agents never fail to mention. Crime is down and renters are getting a steal. Far from the powder keg of years past, it’s officially up-and-coming and a stone’s throw from Prospect Park. A 2004 New York Times article dubbed Crown Heights a “hidden jewel,” and the accepted wisdom is that you should grab real estate in the borough while you still can. 

This is the sentiment echoed by Ruby Allen, a Coldwell Banker real estate agent who has worked in the area for years. When I ask her if she considers it dangerous, she was shocked at the suggestion.

“Dangerous? Why would you say that?” she asks. “I don’t think so.” 

But I’m not alone in my presupposition of danger. Crown Heights and its irritable neighbor to the north, Bedford-Stuyvesant—frequently—top the shortlist of areas to avoid at night. But Ms. Allen’s view remains unfalteringly rosy.

“I’ve spent a lifetime in those areas, and they’re OK,” she says. “You’re going to have problems here and there, but it’s not uncommon to what’s going on in other areas." These are truly heartening words, and convincing to many potential buyers, especially those uninitiated to the city. 

*     *     *

When I’m finished surveying the half-dozen mugshots on the screen, I motion to the officer, who skips to the next batch. I’m hoping that the sight of a mugger’s face will immediately spark some sort of connection. The only one with whom I made eye contact was a slender man—boy, really, though it pains me to admit—about 5’11’’ with a long face. The description I dictated to the officer is pitifully inadequate: Hair? Black; Clothes? Black; Skin? Black; Especially light or dark? No; Distinguishing facial features? No. Just an average, African American guy. But there must be more words to describe six black males. My portrayal is so scant, I wonder if it’s offensive—a mark of inherent racial prejudice. 

This isn’t the first time I’d navigated the mire of race relations. It was certainly a concern before I moved in. As a white man, I was not so naïve as to think moving into a predominantly black neighborhood wouldn’t make me stand out. But when I ask Ms. Allen if there are any racial concerns I should consider, she denies it flatly.

“There’s not [a racial issue in Crown Heights],” she says. “It’s quite okay.”

And I want to believe that because I shouldn’t be concerned. My initial belief was, if I keep to myself and don’t bother others, I should be safe and problem free. It seemed logical. Granted, living in self-imposed exile and ferrying from apartment-to-subway and back is a dismal existence, but that seems to be the trade-off for affordable housing. Many young white people are living in less-than-desirable neighborhoods—many mostly black—for just this reason. A recent college grad, my income is miserably small, certainly too low to live with the rest of my demographic in Williamsburg or Greenpoint. But in spite of humble means and good intentions, I still stand out and could easily be taken as part of the urban bourgeoisie whose presence helps boost rents and push out low-income residents. It’s hard to swallow, but to some, I’m the ugly face of gentrification.

I didn’t feel like such an invasive intruder as I exited the subway that evening. As the station’s warmth dissolved into an early fall chill, I started on the three-block stroll to my apartment. The yellow light from bodegas and jerk chicken shops cast an eerie glow into the red brick canyon of the avenue. I reached my block and saw a pack of young men approaching, filling the width of the sidewalk. The five or six guys had a dramatic appearance, clad entirely in jet black—pants, shirts, shoes, everything. I was suddenly aware that I was the only person around, the street mostly empty. My gut instinct was to avoid interaction—cross the street and take a slightly longer route home. My brain resisted. Yes, they were black and I was white, but I had no reason to fear these guys who looked about my age. I didn’t feel like a target, and I should be able to interact. It shouldn’t be an issue. 

I relaxed a bit and casually passed the group, but the last person stopped in my path. The blinking sign of a 24-hour grocery intermittently splashed light on his face. I couldn’t tell if his strained expression was amusement or anger, but I hoped for the former. I offered my approximation of a friendly “Hello,” intended to break the icy silence that was coating the block. 

Instead, it was broken with a swift blow to the back of my head. Before I could process the event, I toppled to the pavement, dizzy and confused. I instinctively covered my face to the sea of pounding limbs and barked orders. I surrendered all control over the situation, and one frenzied moment later, it was over. I listened to the fading echo of sneakers hitting asphalt and assessed my condition. My ears were ringing and stabbing pain pulsed through my head. My bag and all of its contents were gone. Two weeks earlier, the FBI reported that in New York City, there’s only a single crime for every 37 citizens. Lying on the garbage-strewn sidewalk, I realized I was that one.

*     *     *

At the precinct, I look at the next set of men and find them far more weathered than the ones who had robbed me. Their hollow eyes and grizzled faces suggest they’ve seen much more life than the boys I’m looking for. I tell the officer I should be looking at kids much younger. 

“These guys are all sixteen,” he says, unfazed. “It’s the youngest we’re allowed to keep on record.”

I’m as shocked as a person can be right after being beaten, robbed and sitting in the cave of Precinct 77 with a sack of thawing peas on his head. All of these convicts are kids and live mere blocks from me. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. From school shootings to “wolf packs” of kids assaulting strangers, youth violence is a constant threat, even in “safe” New York. It brings to mind the 2005 shooting of Nicole duFresne or death of Broderick John Hehman in April. While visiting a friend in Harlem, the NYU student was attacked for his cell phone by a group of kids ranging in age from 13 to 16. Harlem has dramatically improved from its former state, much like the rest of the city, but citizens should not feel invulnerable to this sort of crime. Sadly, if the pursuit hadn’t poured into the street, and Hehman wasn’t killed by oncoming traffic, it would have never been reported by the media.

Nevertheless, it seems that New Yorkers feel entitled to this new degree of safety. There is a palpable social naivete where people, like myself, assume a level of security based on improving crime statistics in the New New York, so much so that they abandon a healthy sense of fear. 

*     *     *

After finding no potential matches at the station, the officer drives me back to my apartment. A former narcotics specialist, he points out the buildings where heroin is sold and those where crack is sold. Some adjoin the places I eat lunch and buy groceries. Groups congregating on stoops seem to recognize the tinted windows of our unmarked car and swiftly disperse. 

As he pulls up to my building, I ask him what he would have said if I’d talked to him before moving to the area.

“Well, that’s a complicated question,” he says without breaking his fixed stare on the street. “There’s a lot of factors to consider.”

I ask if he would ever live here.

“No, never.”

Entering my building, I wonder if this is one of the last times I’ll call this apartment home. I envision the future neighborhood, devoid of grimy bodegas, and I can see strollers and Starbucks dotting the street. Then again, I’d probably have to move to the next danger zone to afford the rent. All of these questions add to a throbbing headache, and I’m starving after the three-hour ordeal. Fortunately, the peas are about ready to eat.