Marble Hill is a small, intriguing neighborhood just above the northern tip of Manhattan, where the neighborhood of Inwood is located. While it is officially a part of the Borough of Manhattan, it seems decidedly Bronx in both feel and aesthetic. It is quickly becoming a commercial hub with one commercial development built in 2004 that houses a Target, a Starbucks, and a Marshalls on 225^th Street and Broadway and another commercial development underway around 227^th St and Broadway.

With a population of 9,481 and an area of 0.145 square miles, it is considered a densely populated neighborhood at 65,410 people per square mile when compared with the average population density of the Bronx, 31,709 people per square mile. Yet when you compare the population density of Marble Hill with that of Manhattan, 70,629 people per square mile, it is slightly below average. These comparisons speak to something greater about Marble Hill, how it is not quite Manhattan or not quite the Bronx, it is its own entity and has an identity altogether separate than that of either Borough.

To begin, a brief history is in order. Marble Hill has been occupied since the Dutch Colonial period. On August 18, 1646, Governor Willem Kieft, the Dutch director-general of New Netherland, signed a land grant to Mattius Jansen van Keulan and Huyck Aertsen that now comprises the neighborhood of Marble Hill. At this point in Marble Hill’s history, it was still a part of Manhattan with the Harlem River (Spuytent Duyvel Creek is the name of the portion around Marble Hill) weaving around it as shown by the map below:

1885 map of Northern Manhattan

When hostilities broke out at the start of the Revolutionary War, the Continental Army constructed a fort on Marble Hill. By November 1776, the fort had been taken over by Hessian Forces. In 1817 Curtis and John Bolton purchased land in the area and built a mill where the Metro North station is now situated. In 1891, Darius C. Crosby conceived the name of Marble Hill from the local deposits of Dolomite marble, a relatively soft rock that overlay the Marble Hill and Inwood communities. In 1895, the Harlem River Canal was constructed in response to an increase in commercial shipping traffic thus severing Marble Hill from mainland Manhattan. Marble Hill remained its own island until 1914 when Spuyten Duyvil Creek was landfilled:

Map of Marble Hill from 1900

Saint Stephen’s Methodist Church, a fixture of the Marble Hill community, was built in 1898 on Marble Hill Avenue and 228^th Street. It is one of the oldest religious institutions in the area. By the roaring twenties Marble Hill had acquired its current street layout.

In 1901, the 1 Train (formerly IRT Train) was extended from 145^th Street to 242^nd Street with a stop at 225^th Street right in the middle of Marble Hill. This development sparked interest land speculators and six-story apartments were quickly constructed. By the late 1950s, urban renewal came to the are and the Marble Hill Houses were constructed between Exterior Street, 225 Street, and Broadway. John F. Kennedy High School, 99 Terrace View Avenue, opened in 1972 and overlooks the Harlem River.

Marble Hill was formerly a bastion for the Jewish and Irish, but now has become around 33 percent Black and 75 percent Hispanic. Whites only make up 8 percent of the population, and in recent years the neighborhood has seen and influx of both Asian and Hispanic immigrants. When speaking with some of the residents, I found out that the Hispanic immigrants come primarily from three countries, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, and Mexico. While more and more immigrants poor in from Puerto Rico and Mexico, the Dominican population has begun to dwindle in what was formerly a popular Dominican neighborhood. Marble Hill is now 36.4 percent foreign born compared with the New York City average of 22.2 percent.

Of the population of Marble Hill, 3,903 are males and 5,577 are females. Of the households, 49.1 percent are family households, 23.9 percent contain married couples, 10 percent contain married couples with children, and 26.5 percent contain single mothers with children.  The median age of males in Marble Hill is 33.1 years old for males and 41.0 years old for females.

Of the 9,481 reported residents, 3,433 live in the Marble Hill Houses, a project in the center of the neighborhood. The project is composed of eleven buildings, fourteen to fifteen stories high. There are approximately 1,682 apartments throughout the 16.64 acre complex. Like most other projects, its appearance was a bit grim and dystopian with its dull-brown bricks, dilapidated windows, and menacing size relative to the other buildings in the neighborhood. While heading north on the 1 Train, it appears on your right, east of Broadway. It is bordered by two shopping centers, one finished and another in progress. It is at the foot of what I assume the Hill that Marble Hill is named after. On the western edge of Broadway lie both storefronts and residential apartments.

After exploring east Marble Hill and Broadway I was severely underwhelmed by the neighborhood. Perhaps there was nothing unique about the neighborhood I had anticipated to be enthralling as I began to head west. I was thoroughly disappointed as I walked a long 225^th Street, looking out onto the Hudson River. It was at this point that I looked to my right and discovered a shabby-looking art-deco apartment building. Although the apartment was in a state of decay, it had a dusted beauty that offered hope and redemption for the neighborhood in my eyes. I turned onto Marble Hill Avenue, hopeful once again, and was greeted by a magnificent sight. The winding street snaked its way through a series of gorgeous twentieth-century homes that each glowed with a different, magnificent aura. I made my way down the street, each home appearing more impressive than the next. Trees accented the sidewalk, and each house had its own separate lawn garnished with beautiful landscaping and gardens. This was the Marble Hill I had been searching for. Marble Hill suddenly became the place where you could own a lawn in Manhattan.

I walked back to Broadway and approached some residents with questions on the neighborhood. Most of my interviewees were either reluctant to talk or had nothing to talk about. I asked a young, Middle Eastern man behind the cash register in a deli what he thought of the neighborhood. He gave me a succinct answer, “It’s fine,” he said. I inquired about what he did in his free time in the neighborhood and he said that he played soccer and that the majority of younger people living in the neighborhood either played soccer or basketball in their free time. I then approached an elderly Black woman exiting the Marble Hill Houses and asked her what she thought of the neighborhood. She said that she thought it was fine as well, and that she enjoyed going to church. What church she was talking about, she never specified. She continued by saying that a lot of the older people in the neighborhood went to church and that was where they interacted. So, I began to form an image of Marble Hill as a community of reserved people that went about their business the day without much interaction before returning to their homes.

I then approached two Black street-vendors, a man and woman named Edward and Tanya. I asked them what they thought of the neighborhood, where they lived, etc. Edward’s eyes lit up, it was as if he had been waiting for someone to ask. “It’s ok,” he said and then he looked up at me, “People mind their own business, there isn’t a lot of crime, it’s home you know?” I inquired further about Marble Hill and asked if there was any sense of community. He said, “Like I said before people mind their own business, people wake up, go to work then come home, and stay in their apartment.” He immediately validated the image of Marble Hill I had had in my mind. Edward lived in the Marble Hill Houses and he said that as far as projects go, the Marble Hill Houses were pretty good. He said that Marble Hill was not in gang territory so crime was not much of an issue, he then continued and said, “I’ve been stuck up,” he paused for a moment, “and I’ve returned the favor.” He laughed casually and then got up from his seat and helped a browsing customer. He returned and I asked him who lived in Marble Hill to which he replied, “mostly Blacks and Hispanics.” I then asked if people gor a long for the most part and he said, “of course, people just mind their own business.” Edward then mentioned how a lot of people in Marble Hill were now moving to the Pocono Mountains for cheap homes. I asked him if there was any other explanation for the migration to the Poconos but he did not have one.

The sense I got talking to Edward was that Marble Hill, apart from the occasional robbery or shooting, was not crime ridden or ripe with racial tensions. It was a relatively peaceful neighborhood with cheap rent and good business. One of the only issues it faces is its school, John F. Kennedy High School, which has suffered from over-crowding, poor leadership, and abrasive restructuring for a while now. Aside from the school and purely looking at the statistics it seems that families do not really exist in the traditional sense in Marble Hill. It has a high percentage of single mothers, which is a common issue but a poignant one nonetheless. Marble Hill also lacks the pride and sense of community that other NYC neighborhoods have in abundance. However, no neighborhood is without some problems.

John F. Kennedy High School

In conclusion, Marble Hill is a wonderful little neighborhood just above the northern tip of Manhattan. What it lacks in community it makes up for in architecture. Perhaps the most striking thing about the neighborhood is its diversity in everything, people, houses, streets, etc. While it may feel like the Bronx at first it does not have the isolation and urban decay typical of many Bronx neighborhoods. Its identity remains hard to pin point, not quite the Bronx and not quite Manhattan, it is simply Marble Hill.

I leave my Writing for Science class at 12:15 pm. I walk out of Harris Hall and out into the mid-March sun. I begin my lunchtime walk to Remas Deli on Amsterdam Avenue. I quickly arrive on Amsterdam Avenue, a Toyota Prius is parked to my right. I see Policemen standing in line with students at one of the many Halal food trucks littered about the campus. I hear, to the left of me, a Hispanic woman with her two children, a boy and a girl, frantically talking on the phone in a melodic mixture of Spanish and English.

I walk across the street, sit down on a stoop, and begin rolling a cigarette. Absorbed in my task, I don’t notice a Vietnamese man quietly assume a position next to me. He asks in broken English, “Can I roll cigarette, please?” I promptly finish rolling my cigarette and hand him the rolling machine and pouch of tobacco.  He refuses the rolling machine, and seems insulted. “I teach you how to roll,” he proudly says, his eyes beaming. I find this friendly man’s proposition hard to refuse. upon my acceptance he sets about teaching me the art of rolling a cigarette. His geniality is infectious, and I can’t help feeling a certain comradery with this jolly and strangely insistent, middle-aged man.

The man begins instructing me, but struggles to find the right words for each step in the procedure. He becomes frustrated, tormented even, and the situation takes a dark turn. In him I see a slightly defeated man, tortured by demons unbeknownst to me. I absent-mindedly listen to his disjointed instructions until he finishes. He looks at me and the proud glow returns to his weathered face. I politely thank him, stand up, and continue my walk.

Right before I arrive at Remas Deli, I pass by a damply-lit Chinese Restaurant. Hordes of students have collected inside, and a delivery man emerges from the mass of people. His pale, thin arms are lined with delivery bags. Each bag has Thank you and below an unconvincing smiley-face, Have a good day, printed on it. The man walks quickly, masterfully balancing the bags with a grim determination as he dons a dilapidated bike. His indifferent, focused look contrasts sharply with the jovial and well-meaning message that lines his two arms.

I finally arrive at my destination, Remas Deli. I enter the small, inviting store and a familiar smell reaches my nose, that of chopped ground beef frying on a griddle. It is invigorating. 

Behind the counter stand two welcoming Yemeni men. One of these men, Al, stands eager to greet me. “Hello my friend,” he says under a thick Arabic accent as he reaches out his hand, fist clenched. I bump it, I wouldn’t have it any other way. “How many girlfriends you have now?” he asks inquisitively to which I cheerily respond, “None.”

This question is recurring, and although it may be seen by some as offensive, I see it differently. The question is Al’s big joke, his making sense of the flurry of conflicting American ideas that assault him everyday. I can’t tell if he is sarcastic or not, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way the question represents the same thing.

I ask for my sandwich, a Chopped-Cheese, and Al resumes his place at the griddle. He throws the hamburger patty on the griddle, and after a while he starts chopping at the beef patty with his spatula. The movements are frenzied, staccato in nature, and violent. Al enters a zone, the dark rings under his eyes become even darker, he is somewhere else…

I open my eyes, hear the sub-bass throbbing underneath me, and am reminded almost immediately that I am not back in Yemen. Outside of the window there are two dogs fighting and two men trying to separate them. My apartment is small, tiny in fact, and my amenities are few. I remember that there is some saltah in the fridge and I throw some khat in my mouth before I go to reheat it. As the saltah heats up, the smell of fenugreek and lamb drenches my kitchen. I am hit hard by this odor, it reminds me of Yemen, and that I am nine months away from my return. It reminds me that I am here, on 117^th Street, and not back in Sana’a. It reminds me of my future wife, and the money for the mahr, I must earn.

I pass a man begging for money on 120^th Street. His coat is torn in multiple places, and it reads Adidas in faded-white letters on the front. His glasses are crooked and his mouth is puckered. He looks out into space as if he were blind, and mutters, ”Can ya’ spare a dollar?” in a withered, raspy voice. He reminds me of a man in my old neighborhood in Sana’a, the Shu’aub District. The man’s name was Harbi, and as a child I would examine the man as I walked past him after school. I would say to myself, “I don’t want to end up like this man, I want to escape this man,” and then I would look briefly into his eyes. His stare was forlorn, and his face was mangled. He bled sadness, and I sense that the man next to me on 120^th Street bleeds sadness as well.

On 127^th Street I pass a mosque, Muhammad’s Mosque Number Seven. A friend of mine, Phillip, stands outside. He greets me, “Hello my brother! Will you be in the Mosque tomorrow morning?” I stop and respond, “Maybe, I don’t know yet.” I was never the most devout Muslim but Phillip is nice and part of me wants to take him up on his offer. I don’t know.

I finally arrive at work, Remas Deli. Ali, my coworker, gives me a nod and tells me As-salamu alakykum or, “Peace be upon you,”  as I walk in. Above the cash register I see Yemeni currency, rial, bearing messages such as   bit-tawfiq or, “Good Luck!” I stand and stare for a moment before Ali interrupts me, “You’ll be home soon enough, don’t worry too much.” He is right, I will be home soon enough, I shouldn’t worry. He continues, “Only nine months,” only nine months…

Upon hearing Fadi’s story, I realized that the American Immigrant’s  story has not really changed since the opening of Ellis and Angel Island, and the creation of the classical American Immigrant’s Story. There may be new technology, new methods of communication, new venues for the media, but none of these seem to destroy the myth that America and a better life are consistently synonymous. There is a distinct tragedy in this myth, as it almost always sets up whoever immigrates to America in pursuit of a better life, for disappointment. I also realized, however, that this myth creates a deep-seated determination that does not dissipate once an immigrant’s illusions of American Life are destroyed. Fadi’s family was assaulted with these twisted notions of America and its advantages in their native country of Egypt, thus inspiring his father and mother to immigrate to America, with Fadi in tow, in the fall of 2004.

When Fadi arrived in America, he was nearly ten years old with only a basic grasp of the English language. His father, Ameer Habashy, was the driving force behind the family’s move. Ameer fell in love with America in his thirties, most likely due to the media’s distorted portrayal of it. The primary motivation behind their move was Fadi’s future for which Fadi’s parents had high hopes.

Both of Fadi’s parents, Ameer and Emas Habashy, went to four-year universities in Egypt, and both of them have degrees in Engineering. They both grew up in Egypt, and subsequently, their lives were in Egypt. Up until the move, Fadi’s life was also in Egypt. When the Habashy family left Egypt, they left behind their friends, extended family (aside from Fadi’s aunt and two cousins, who had moved to America three years before Fadi moved), and for Fadi’s parents, their careers.

When Fadi first arrived in Borough Park, Brooklyn, his frustration began. He entered the fourth grade, and although a top student back in Egypt, his sub-par English held him back academically. On top of that, he was thrust into an ESL class, which although helpful, made him feel humiliated and stupid. His primary teacher was not of much help, denying Fadi the extra attention he needed as an immigrant in favor of passing on the responsibility of helping him adjust to the teacher in his next year of school, which was the fifth grade. Fadi felt abandoned by his teacher, and his peers offered him no consolation. They did not have the aspirations that Fadi did, and the fact that he was new and confused made him an easy target for harassment.

Fadi’s parents did not fare much better than Fadi in their first year. When they began their job search, they found out that the Engineering Degrees that they had worked so hard for back in Egypt, did not apply in America. Discouraged but not disheartened, they took jobs that they were extremely overqualified for. Through this, they remembered that they came to America primarily for Fadi, and that some sacrifices had to be made in order to aid their son.

In my interview with Fadi, he often talked about the fact that his parents came to America for him. Although noble of them, it seems that Fadi feels this constant pressure to excel. He is an only child, an important fact because he is the sole focus of his parents, magnifying the pressure to do well exponentially. It is a strange situation in that Fadi did not ask for what his parents did for him, yet he cannot get angry because he acknowledges that what they did for him was exceedingly selfless.

In fifth grade, Fadi had a much more pleasant experience. His English improved, his teacher was incredibly helpful, and his peers seemed as keen as he was on school. The seeds of American optimism began to take root in Fadi’s eleven-year old self.

Then came middle school. In sixth grade, Fadi was surrounded by delinquents determined to undermine every teacher they had. They would feign fights and scream in class. During one instance, Fadi recounts that two of his classmates began to spit at one another, and when his teacher tried to intervene she was caught in the crossfire. Fadi’s optimism faded during these years, and he was forced to adapt to his surroundings. This meant that he often joined in on the ruckus, his young mind unable to resist the temptation. But perhaps it was better that Fadi adapted, he already felt like an outsider and by joining in, it not only diminished his alienation, but it created a sense of comradery with his lawless peers.

In the eight grade, Fadi excelled. The chaos that had governed the previous two years of his academic existence was extinguished when the option to take advanced classes was presented to him. In these classes, he felt that the other students were of a similar caliber academically and behaviorally. Both the advanced classes and the stimulating academic atmosphere carried over into his years at FDR High School in Borough Park. Now, like the rest of us, Fadi attends City College through the Macaulay Honors Program.

My father is a second generation American. His father, Thomas Neumann, emigrated from Budapest, Hungary to Vienna, Austria, then from Vienna, Austria to Paris, France, and then from Paris, France to New York, New York. Although, my Grandpa Tom was a child while this moving was going on. His father, Gabor Neumann, was a successful banker who was ushered out of Budapest when he refused a job as finance minister of the newly Communist Government of Hungary. When my great grandfather refused the job, he did not realize that there were going to be consequences until his wife pointed out that the Communist Government would not let him off that easy. So he and his wife and my Grandpa Tom fled to Vienna. In the late 1930s, my great grandfather and his family had to flee once again when the Nazis started taking over Vienna, because they were Jewish. This time they fled to Paris. Then, once again, my great grandfather and his family had to flee because of the Nazis, and that is when they immigrated to America. When my great grandfather came to America he and his family were forced to change their name to Newman because Neumann sounded too German during a time when Germans were not particularly popular. My Grandpa Tom was relatively young, so adjusting to American life was not hard for him. My great grandparents, however, had a tougher time letting go of Hungarian traditions. My Great Grandpa Gabor left behind a successful career, an apartment building that he had owned in Budapest, and his relatives. My grandmother’s family, on my father’s side, has been in America for as long as my father can remember.

My mother’s mother, Mildred Milligan, was a second generation American. Her mother’s last name was Huddy, and she emigrated from County Cork, Ireland to Liverpool in the early twentieth-century with her husband-to-be, whose last name was Tuohy. After a couple of years in Liverpool, the couple immigrated to Yonkers, New York in order to find work. My great grandma worked as a maid at Lyndhurst, a mansion in Tarrytown, New York, and my great grandpa worked as a furniture mover at the department store, Wanamaker’s, in New York City. They were both solemn people, emotionally distant from both each other and their children. The both of them had lived in poverty before they came to America, and they both had hoped that America might change that. It did, to a certain extent, but the two of them felt that their hope for a better life was never completely fulfilled. My grandfather’s parents met each other in America after they emigrated from their respective home countries. My great grandfather, last name Milligan, came from Ireland in the early twentieth century looking for work. My great grandmother, last name Kuntschmann, came from Germany also looking for work. The two thoroughly enjoyed their time in America, perhaps a little bit too much because they left their son, my Grandpa Fred, with his Paternal Grandmother in the Bronx.  My great grandmother’s family eventually immigrated to America a couple of years after she had. My great grandfather’s mother was the only member of his family to come to America, and she came a year or so after he had.