I suppose it’s true that you can’t go home again. Well, you can, but for most of us the home we think about and cherish exists only in memory. Places and people change all the time. That is the nature of the Universe. That is why I must bury my Brooklyn, New York and live more fully in my present, as we all might want to practice doing.
I should know this, but on vacation last week in New York City, I gave in to the need to revisit, rediscover, remember and try to reclaim the Borough of Brooklyn, and more precisely, the neighborhood in which I grew up. I wish we had made it to Coney Island, as originally planned, but we didn’t. Had we done so, I could have played on the beach of my childhood and created a symbolic burial in the sand of a past that is no longer reality.
The truth is that my past doesn’t really exist on the streets of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, regardless of how much I might search for it there. The landmarks of the neighborhood that are the backdrops for so many tales from my youth, happy, quirky, and sometimes even painful, are all gone.
The street names are the same, but all of the places that are vivid in my head are nowhere to be found. The ethnic population has changed, as often happens in cities over a period of many years. Gone are the pizzerias that popped up like dandelions in the late 50’s and 60’s. Gone are the Jewish delis, the Mom and Pop groceries and drugstores. The Marboro Movie Theater, a neighborhood fixture, is no longer there. Jack and Irv’s luncheonette next door to the movie theater, where we ordered egg creams, (a New York drink that has no eggs in it) Lime Rickeys, and burgers, is gone. Anton’s luncheonette, where we would walk at lunchtime from Seth Low Junior High School and where my father would send me to fetch cups of vanilla bean and cinnamon-laden rice pudding and ice cream sundaes, is now a different sort of business.
My old house is still there, but my father’s two tiny gardens that sat on either side of the entryway, have been paved over. The facade on the front of the house is different, there is now a fancy wooden door, new windows and an elaborate gate. I recognized the house only by the address numbers sitting up by the door, a wrought iron greeting to an aging pilgrim. We found one Italian bakery, instead of dozens, as we walked a stretch of perhaps fifteen neighborhood streets.
The population of mostly second and third generation working-class and middle-class Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews, Italians and a few other ethnicities thrown in for good measure, has been replaced by aspiring and upwardly mobile Asians and fairly recent Russian immigrants. There are shops with Chinese characters everywhere and many Russian delis and other eateries. As we got further away from my old house and closer to the area of my old high school, I recognized only one business remembered from my youth, or at least, the name was the same.
As we walked and explored, I felt very sad. It was also hard to accept that so many decades had gone by since I was a pigtailed Brooklyn girl, a hopeful, bright-eyed young poet, with many adventures and achievements in store in the future. It was hard to think that not only did “my” neighborhood look different, but that I didn’t know anybody there now, had no family left there with whom to reminisce.
On the subway ride back to Manhattan, to our hotel, I moped a bit and felt tears ready to flow. As the subway jostled me, my attention shifted to the loud and bubbly chatter of a group of young teenagers who sat behind us. I caught bits and pieces of their animated conversation. I grew more and more fascinated as I tuned in and realized they were spinning stories, with each one taking a turn and then stopping to choose the next person to pick up and continue the tale. There was a great deal of laughter and excitement. I was drawn to their enthusiasm and creativity and was very impressed by what they were coming up with, for the most part. I turned a bit to be able to catch a glimpse of them, out of curiosity. They were a group of five African-American teens, probably between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. They were obviously bright kids, lacking the bored, superior expressions I have often witnessed on many kids that age nowadays, who seem to think it isn’t cool to smile or to be enthusiastic about anything.
My mood lifted very quickly as I enjoyed my time of eavesdropping and my glimpse of their innocent and promising young faces. For a bit, I was completely into their moment, surreptitiously soaking in their energy, and it became my moment too. Gone was the sadness about a past that has been lost in the clouds of time, having drifted away long ago.
I know that my past doesn’t exist in some brick and mortar buildings that have disappeared, or in some distant longing and stirrings of my taste buds for Anton’s rice pudding, for cherry-cheese knishes, for chocolate egg creams from Jack and Irv’s luncheonette. My past exists in my head and in my heart. It is mine alone,unique to me, to keep, to learn from, to examine, though I may occasionally share it with others who own their own versions that propelled them to this day, and to who they are today. My past is not lost because my old neighborhood looks and feels different. It still lives inside of me, and has served its purpose, just as my parents and brother are not merely what exists under the ground in their Long Island cemeteries, or my sister, in her grave in Lancaster, California. They exist in my heart, in all they touched, taught and stood for during their lives, and in the legacies of generations they did not even know, but who possess parts of them that they carry on into the future.
I am nowhere near the beaches, waves and fun of Coney Island, a Brooklyn landmark now, that I have been told was refurbished. I am not a little girl playing in the sand with my pail and shovel while my grandparents unpack a picnic lunch. My old Brooklyn has changed, and so have I, perhaps happily and thankfully. That is why it is really time to bury it. I am no longer disappointed or wistful, but more determined than ever to focus on the abundance of now. This is not always an easy task when life is complicated, when we have many responsibilities and our plates are very full. Still, I must do it.
Marc says
I never lived in the bensonhurst section of brooklyn, but in the 70–80s I had a friend who lived on bay parkway, only a few blocks away from the marboro theater. I would take a bus to his neighborhood once a week (usually a saturday or a school holiday) and we went to the movies at various theaters, but usually the marboro. We mustve seen hundreds of movies there over the years.
One time they filmed the movie, over the brooklyn bridge (1980) there inside irv’s. (I caught a glimpse of elliot gould coming out of irvs and then crossing the street to go to his trailer). In order to do their filming, they had to shut down the marboro too temporarily.
A few years ago, after they closed the marboro but before they tore it down, some guy managed to sneak inside and get quite a few pics of what it looked like and he posted it on the internet. Quite a sad and depressing sight.
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Marc, I was long out of N.Y. by the time you mention but yes, I was also sad to hear the Marboro had been torn down. Thanks for you comment and please do visit my blog again. I would love to have you as a subscriber.
Martin Kwapinski says
Nice essay. It is a disconcerting and disorienting experience to revisit one’s old neighborhoods and haunts after many years. So many things have changed, and it is difficult even to recognize places that should be so familiar, including your old house – if it still stands. Nothing stays the same in a place like Brooklyn over several generations – not the people, and not even the buildings.
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Thank you so much for stopping by and commenting. How did you happen to find that particular post, or were you surfing? I hope you will visit again and read some of my other work, or even subscribe! Just posted a new one a few moments ago.
David-Elijah Nahmod says
My grandma lived 1/2 block from the Marboro Theater until she passed in 1982.
“My grandmother’s house is still there, but it isn’t the same……”
——Judy Collins
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Thanks for your post. Your grandma and I are from the same area, then! I love Judy Collins! I hope you will visit my blog again. I look forward to hearing from you.
Karen Bixon says
Please tell me what I have to do–I lived at 2110 70th street (where I was born until I was in my 20’s)–went to PS 247, Seth Low–Graduated in 1963 Lafayette–thanks
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Hi Karen! I don’t recognize your name, but would not be surprised if we recognized each other. People say I haven’t changed that much. I don’t really agree. LOL. I will try to get in touch with you. We can email privately. I am not sure sidebar you mean when you ask what you have to do. How May I help, Karen?
Robt Seda-Schreiber says
I found this wonderful piece of remembrance whilst searching for Jack’s Luncheonette on the web. My Poppy was Jack Greenspan who ran the luncheonette with Irv, & then for many years on his own after Irv retired. Sadly, my family has no pictures of the front of the store so that’s what I was looking for. Even more sad is that I found absolutely nothing on the great big world wide web except for your photo of it after its closing.
Might you, by some miracle, have a picture of the store in its prime or direct us to a spot or person that might?
Thanks so much for your time & consideration.
Enjoy the day, Robt
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Hi Robert,
I am so sorry I took a while to reply. I will answer you privately. I was away and had trouble posting from my tablet and phone. Thank you for visiting and I hope you will visit again. Don’t know if you like poetry but I have other remembrance type posts on the blog and a poem you may particularly enjoy is called Brooklyn Summers. Use the seach feature and check it out if you wish. I hope to hear from you again.
Roberta Warshawsky Rodriguez says
Great picture of Jack & Irvs and the Marlboro Theater. Growing up in that neighborhood was wonderful and safe. I lived in the apartment building attached to the theater and went to 247, then Seth Low. I remember Antoines, Strickoffs and the pizza place across from the theater. Roll a Rama on 86th Street. Seth low Park. Memories. Thanks for sharing. Roberta Warshawsky
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Roberta, thank you so much for your comments. I glad you visited and hope you will again. I also went to Seth Low JHS and then Lafayette. There are some other nostalgic posts on my blog that have to do with family and growing up in Brooklyn. If you like poetry at all, check out my poem called Brooklyn Summers, and please do visit again. I would love to have you as a regular subscriber. You can subscribe to getting updates by email.
April says
Beautiful memories, Iris…….things change everywhere and it is always good to have the fond memories that you have of growing up in Brooklyn. Beautifully written – -enjoyed reading this very much!
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Very nice of you to comment, April! Thanks much!
Jimmy wescott says
Hi Iris,thank you for such A wonderful look into a bit of your life.
I really enjoyed the read & I so love the pictures.
Jimmy
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
It means a lot to me that you liked it and took the time to comment here, Jimmy. If you know anyone you think might like my work, please pass things on.
Sandra Diamond says
Amazing piece, and yes, it is time to enjoy the present.
Iris Arenson-Fuller says
Thank you so much for reading and for commenting, Sandy!!