Ludlow and Delancey | The Lower East Side | Home.
250 years ago the place we call home was the farm of James Delancey, the street’s namesake. Today, it is a bustling urban neighborhood. Our immediate area is a weekend hotspot for bar crawlers at night, and chic shoppers by day. Delancey Street is filled with many familiar corporate names: Popeyes, McDonalds, and Duane Reade to name a few. However, start walking north and you notice far more locally owned businesses: clothing stores, eateries, concert halls, bakeries, and bars. While at one time, the Lower East Side was filled with low-income immigrants (see the Tenement Museum across the street) it is currently being gentrified by hipsters and yuppies as they spill over the Williamsburg Bridge.
Much of this neighborhood, described by the 1939 Federal Writers Project New York City guide as the “Jewish quarter,” still looks just as it did during the Great Depression. While their interiors may be significantly different, the exteriors of former tenements appear as they were nearly a century ago. While young artists and professionals exit the buildings now, these tall apartment buildings once housed a slew of immigrant workers who were responsible for building much of the New York we see today. While a single floor may be occupied by only one to two people today, the area’s former residents lived in cramped quarters, with as many as five or six families occupying each floor.
_________________________________________________________________________
Bloodshot eyes, weary shoulders, and depressed facial expressions: It’s the middle of the semester. We drag our feet down the cold concrete steps of the Delancey Street/Essex Street Station we call our own. Just as we plop into the ancient wooden benches, the heads of our more alert fellow passengers strain over the tracks: here comes the J. The train slowly pulls in. The doors open and crowds form in front of every door as passengers pile in before others are able to exit. “This is a Manhattan bound J train. The next stop is [a pause] Bow’ry.” Inside, we stand silently. Our bodies sway as the train passes through the tunnel. Packed like sardines, our hands gravitate towards the ceiling of the tin can so as not to collapse on our fellow passengers. The morning commute is an uneventful one; few are engaged in conversation, and even fewer are fully conscious. Eyelids droop, hands lay limp on laps, and not a sound escapes the lips of the commuters. In an attempt to remain awake, some travelers increase the volume on their MP3 players. The subway car is home to a fusion of rap and hip-hop as the various melodies intertwine, breeding a buzzing that can be barely heard over the sound of the train grinding along its tracks.
As the doors slide open at Bowery, a few commuters slip out of the crowded train and onto the platform. “Stand clear of the closing doors,” the public service announcement drones. The commuters continue their route with indifference, daydreaming of their ride home, another day of work under their belts. Truly individualistic, the commuters create a collage of ethnicities and personalities ranging from an elderly Chinese woman dressed in a drab olive-toned coat to a slim, black, teenage boy, adorned with the largest headphones available. Despite having to clutch onto the bar overhead, a man dressed in a unkempt suit manages to proceed with his daily crossword puzzle. Not a single persons pays attention to the person to his right or left, instead preferring to close their eyelids completely or choosing to stare at the ground for fear of making eye contact.
We arrive at Canal Street, and like cattle to the slaughter, file out of our pen and down the steps, across another platform, and dash up another set of stairs as we hear the 6 train open its doors. The car is relatively empty, and we are finally able to sit. With so few people in the car, it appears much brighter than the bleak J. Empty seats abound, for this train is not at its peak time just yet. Mostly white collar commuters and students are scattered throughout the train as it makes its way uptown to 23rd Street. A man comfortably sprawled out reads his Wall Street Journal as the well-dressed lady across from him carefully applies her makeup.
As we reach the 14th Street station, the train is suddenly flooded with people. We slowly prepare ourselves for the coming journey to the Vertical Campus. The train pulls into 23rd Street, and feeling our pockets and bags to be sure we have everything, we pull ourselves up and stumble onto the platform, Baruch-bound.
—————
Federal Writer’s Project. New York City: Vol 1, New York City Guide. New York: Octagon Books, 1939.
