By the time my husband and I purchased an apartment in Alphabet City, all my idols were dead. I imagined their ghosts making fun of people like me who crawled into the East Village hoping to have babies and a volunteer gig in a community garden. But I was desperate to belong to a neighborhood that represented my values, ideals, and dreams of a creative life—a neighborhood with a storied history and its share of ghosts.
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Why I Left New York (And Returned)
Around this time, a friend mentioned that her son, his wife, and two children were considering moving to Brooklyn when they finished their teaching commitments in the Congo. I could see them easily fit into Park Slope or Carroll Gardens with their tow-headed darlings. I smiled and nodded, fighting back a scream of lament. Why was it so easy for some people to have beautiful children and move to a city I’d nearly turned into a distant idol, while both seemed impossible for us?
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