Chapter 11 Lina #2
Bernard & Co.’s office was on the forty-third floor of an Art Deco skyrise adjacent to the East River.
The doorman printed name tags, and then Lina and Tyrell got lost trying to figure out which of the many different elevators would take them to the right floor.
When they reached the forty-third, a receptionist led them to a conference room.
“God bless,” Lina exclaimed, hobbling over to the windows, her nausea beginning to fade.
She looked out at the bridges, the Statue of Liberty, the ferries hustling back and forth from the islands, and then over at Brooklyn.
“I enjoyed the twelfth floor but imagine living on the forty-third,” she whispered to Tyrell.
“You’d start thinking you owned the borough. ”
“Ms. Rodriguez Armstrong, Mr. Scott. Welcome! Thank you for coming.”
Mr. Bernard wore a pirate blouse, one button open at the collar.
In his company were two members of his staff: a South Asian man with slicked hair and a pretty Black lady in a lavender sheath dress.
He explained he had another meeting to attend, but that the two associates were there to represent him.
The four sat down at the conference table, and Tyrell started them off, detailing the CLT’s proposal.
“Four floors, and each has a theme. Floor one is the auditorium and rehearsal spaces. Floor two has a darkroom, a studio, a computer lab. Floor three, classrooms for certification programs. Floor four is the LGBTQ youth space. And we’re envisioning an outdoor space as well, a community garden,” he said.
“But most important, the land would be owned by the community land trust, ensuring it never gets resold for profit. We’re in the process of incorporating the Wesley Price Community Land Trust.”
“An interesting concept. I think I’ve heard of them before,” the lady said. “Like, Vermont, right? Does Vermont have a community land trust?”
“Not just Vermont,” Lina said. “There are hundreds across the country. First one was founded by Black Freedom Fighters in Georgia.”
“That is definitely interesting,” said the South Asian guy, offering a rushed smile. “Now, our understanding is that the city’s RFP is going to state a preference for affordable housing on the site, but I think there may be space on a ground floor for some kind of community center.”
“They want to put more housing in Brownsville?”
“The RFP will be issued as part of the administration’s affordable housing plan,” he said. “So the housing will be lottery units targeting a range of incomes.”
“I don’t know where the city got the idea we need more housing in Brownsville.” Lina almost wanted to laugh. “They need to remember the history of this neighborhood, the history of Robert Moses in this neighborhood. We have more public housing than anywhere in the country.”
“Of course,” said the man, pulling himself toward the table and folding his hands before him.
“It’s important not to increase the concentration of poverty in Brownsville.
But the administration is trying to build as much affordable housing as possible to meet the greater crisis, and every neighborhood must do its part. ”
Lina pulled back her chin and glanced wearily at Tyrell.
“We get what you’re saying,” Tyrell attempted. “But the whole idea was to create something the community really needs. Show these kids that true investments are being made in their future.”
“I suggest thinking of it this way: housing will keep many of these children out of homelessness.”
Lina didn’t appreciate the man’s tone.
“So, this new affordable housing. How do you define ‘affordable’?” asked Tyrell.
“We’re planning on using the Extremely Low- and Low-Income Affordability term sheet,” said the woman, passing a printout across the table to Tyrell. “It’s the city’s best program to increase the supply of housing for low-income households.”
“That’s that AMI bullshit,” muttered Lina, and all of them—even Tyrell—raised their eyebrows.
“Excuse my language. But that Area Median Income metric that the government uses to define ‘low-income’ is ridiculous. If you’re a family making fifty thousand in Brownsville, no one calls you ‘low-income.’ ”
“We’re actually going to use the city subsidy program with the deepest affordability, the program really meant for neighborhoods like Brownsville. There will be apartments for a range of incomes, from twenty thousand to seventy thousand,” said the woman. She nodded, as if forgiving their mistake.
Tyrell was taking notes. “And will the new housing go to Brownsville residents?”
“All units will be advertised on the housing lottery, but community district residents will be prioritized for a percentage of units.”
“What’s in it for Bernard and Company?” Lina asked.
“You mean why are we interested in the project?”
“This kind of project is fairly integral to what we do,” said the man, still with that lecturing tone. “You probably know us as high-end housing developers, but we also build housing for the homeless. A mixed-income project is pretty much our bread and butter.”
Lina shook her head. He hadn’t answered the question. “I want to know how Bernard and Co. would profit off this project. We live in a capitalist society. It’s what you do.”
“Well, this is the kind of work we love,” said the woman, still playing good cop.
“Of course, there’s the developer fee and rental income.
But if you’re interested in a joint venture, we can offer your group a ten percent ownership stake in the property, along with management of the center on the ground floor. ”
“So community ownership in name only, you mean?”
The two associates looked at each other, and Tyrell jiggled his knees under the table.
Lina was sick of this already. Millionaires, billionaires, profiting off the displacement and then acting like they loved themselves some charity work. She didn’t need to hear more.
“This is my point. We’re not in the business of privatizing our community. We’re bringing land into community control. We can’t work with a developer that’s drawing value out of the community.”
The two associates nodded in silence, cleared their throats.
“We understand your concern,” said the woman. “But as we see it, a joint venture provides all the ingredients needed for a successful project. As the developer, we offer the expertise, the money, while the community partner brings a good rapport with neighborhood residents.”
“These days, the city thinks it can help the poor by paying rich people to get richer.”
“The city needs its private developers,” the man said, folding his arms. “Unless the federal government wants to build more public housing. But it won’t do that, for good reason.”
“I think that’s exactly what the federal government should do. Just not in Brownsville.”
“And we could spend a whole day on that one,” Tyrell butted in before she could say more. He turned to the lady. “So specifically, how much space do you think we’d have for a cultural center on the ground floor?”
While Tyrell and the lady discussed what sort of things BYTE might like to see in a small community space, Lina dug in her purse for a tube of ChapStick.
When they finally headed to the elevators, Mr. Bernard appeared to say goodbye.
“It was nice speaking to your associates,” Lina said, shaking his hand. “But we will be submitting our own proposal, separately from Bernard and Company.”
Lina tried to ignore the look on Tyrell’s face.
“You have an independent streak,” Mr. Bernard said, grinning.
The Access-A-Ride was an hour behind schedule, and Transit Control authorized a car service ride. In a shiny black Uber, Lina and Tyrell zipped back over the bridge.
“The city wants to put more housing in Brownsville, and developers come drooling like dogs for bacon.”
As she ridiculed them, Tyrell didn’t laugh. He sucked his teeth and looked out the window.
“Look, I’m all about the community land trust and community control. But what about the financing? Where we gonna get it?”
“City grants. Bank loans.”
“The council won’t even allocate discretionary funds for BYTE at the level I’m asking. And the banks don’t want to work with small fry like us.”
Now, it was Lina who looked out the window.
She was worried, for the first time, that Tyrell didn’t believe in her.
He was using this nonprofit-speak these days, and they both knew she’d never incorporated any of her own organizations—the Freedom School, the Arts & Dreams Day Care.
And, of course, he was right: you couldn’t erect a building foundation on barbecue fundraisers.
“Look,” Tyrell said. “If we ain’t working with Bernard, we need massive public support. So we get this out in the media, Ms. Lina. Big-time.”
“Ah, you want us talking to that reporter you crushing on.” She glanced at Tyrell to gauge his reaction, but he wasn’t in a mood to be teased.
Lina took a deep breath. “Okay. We do need press. Tell Miss Sadie I accept. But this interview—you got to let me do it my way.”
“Deal.” Tyrell nodded.
Soon they were home in the ’Ville again, the smell of fresh bread through the window, a bass beat vibrating Lina’s skull. It was three o’clock, just past dismissal time, and Lina watched the groups of kids play-fighting on the corners.
It wasn’t until she was behind her apartment door that the heaviness sank in. Icing her knees, listening to the drip drip drip of the kitchen sink pipe, thinking about the beauty of Brownsville, Lina felt a familiar twist in her gut, her intestines tangled like Christmas lights in storage.