MotherSister Brooklyn

The US Open is in full swing at Flushing Meadows this week, and I want to know: What is it about the Williams sisters that brings out latent racism in spades? People who intensely dislike them cite laughably superficial reasons, like their on-court vocalizations (hello, Monica Seles?) or their perceived arrogance (they’ve earned the right to be confident — they’re champions), or “thug tennis” style (yes, people actually use that term). The photographer Hub — who would drop me like a hot potato if Serena showed up at the door with her tennis racket, asking if he could come out to play and reminding him to bring his balls — is especially incensed at the media’s tendency to depict them as animalistic; note how frequently a photo of Venus or Serena appears with their faces contorted and muscles bulging in the heat of a matchpoint battle to illustrate their wins, while the Maria Sharapovas are shown glowing beautifully and triumphantly hoisting their silver trophies. Sometimes the media isn’t even that subtle: Here’s a typically ugly Daily Mail takedown of Serena’s physique; what the writer calls “broad-shouldered” and “thunder thighs” are, as the comments below the article note, rather enviable to many women (and lust-enhancing to many men).

That black men and women have had a hard slog in the tennis world isn’t news, but that it continues to be so stubbornly snotty is exasperating. My godparents were full-on tennis devotees in the ’70s and ’80s; when they weren’t down at the local courts, they were watching Lendl, McEnroe, Noah, and Navratilova on TV. I took tennis lessons (not that they did me much good) like half of the other kids in my neighborhood. The neighborhood in question, though, was a middle-class black enclave; it was only when we didn’t live in the Old Country that I realized that tennis was some rarefied sport, like golf and hockey and polo, that some people were a little more welcome to play than others. The Hub dreams of making The Scamp into a tennis pro, but that may be a long shot (besides, who’s to say his future isn’t in cricket or soccer or ballroom dancing)?

Luckily, neither Venus nor Serena lets any of this get them down, at least not publicly. They refuse to apologize for their outside interests in fashion or interior design or simply enjoying their lives, keeping tennis in perspective as just one thing that they do stunningly well. Other players on the tour may find it boring, but the MotherSister Posse will be rooting for yet another all-Williams final semifinal.

I’m a magazine junkie. Somewhere in my parents’ attic is the entire run of Sassy, as well as some late ’80s/early ’90s editions of Details and The Face. I also couldn’t resist junk-food equivalents like Right On!, Seventeen, Mademoiselle, and Vogue. I’ve generally curbed my habit to quality reading — Granta, Wax Poetics, The New Yorker — but occasionally I break down and buy some fluff to scowl at. My latest favorite object of derision is Cookie, which made the mistake of sending me a subscription invitation a month ago; I scrawled a kiss-off to the editor on it and returned it in their generously provided SASE. Of the many reasons I loathe Cookie, one is undoubtedly their apeing of superior mags, one of which is the now-suspended Violet.

Violet was the brainchild of Carolyn “Keki” Mingus, who wanted to create a magazine for people with children that didn’t assume they’re all Stepford wives and husbands. Yes, the cover subjects included the likes of Juliette Binoche and Donovan Leitch, but it covered them in a way that suggested that they’re muddling though parenthood and trying to create a good life for their kids like the rest of us. You could indulge in a little aspirational lifestyle reading without feeling completely sick to your stomach by the time you reached the last page; best of all, it took it for granted that children and parents come in all colors and deserve to be represented. Like Milk, but American, rainbow-hued, and less cool-cool obsessed.

Unfortunately, a year ago, subscribers received a postcard notifying them that publication was being suspended. Seeking an update, I caught up with Keki, who explained that her financial backer abruptly pulled out, leaving their in-a-garage operation in the lurch. She sounded pretty down about the situation, but talks with a new possible investor are ongoing and there may be some positive news in a month or so. Subscribers seem content to wait; Keki said that only two had requested their money back. Back issues of the original four-issue run are still available though the Violet website (but be patient — orders are filled once a month).

Why am I on about this? It’s just a parenting magazine, right? Well, I sometimes feel that issues surrounding our children are the last bastion where racism is tacitly allowable. (Look no further than the American school system, from daycare to academia, if you claim not to know what I mean.) Media representations of children and family — especially in magazines — reflect, on a basic level, what is considered adorable, desirable, supportable. As I wrote to Cookie’s editor, brown people have money and love their children, and I’m not interested in supporting any enterprise that actually works to pretend we don’t exist. So here’s hoping that Violet makes a much-needed return, on the double.

According to Clinton Hill Blog, a Bigelow Chemists-style place called Teleos Apothecary is opening in the neighborhood soon. There’s a kerfuffle in the comments section about whether an organic, holistic health care place is what the neighborhood really needs. What I’ve always wondered about Fort Greene and Clinton Hill is (1) why do we have multiples of certain luxury businesses, such as bagel places (now 3), boutique wine shops (3, with a 4th coming soon), doggie stores (2, down from 3), and hair/nail salons (at least 6 I can think of effortlessly) when there are plenty of more basic shops that would be welcome here; and (2) why don’t the existing practical businesses (grocery stores, pharmacies, hardware stores) step up their game to keep up with the changing demographics of the neighborhood?

Really, I’m asking. Can someone tell me? This holistic health care spot, for example — it’s a pharmacy. It’s a pharmacy selling organic goods, herbs, and homeopathic remedies, but it’s still a pharmacy (just one that won’t fill your Western doctor’s prescriptions, apparently). The owner of this new holistic place says she doesn’t intend to sell anything with “synthetic” ingredients, but even Bigelow and Ansonia in Greenwich Village aren’t that pure — they got rent to pay. Can this neighborhood sustain a Elephant-style pharmacy? Likewise to the guy thinking of opening an all-green cleaning supplies store: His neighborhood competition is Karrot, the Mets and Associated, Greene Farm, Target, and Fresh Direct, not to mention other nearby stores also dedicated to green products. Sometimes I think people are reading too many New York Times articles to garner ideas for their business plans.

On the other hand, existing local businesses certainly deserve the competition. Customer service is notoriously bad in NYC, especially in Brooklyn, and some Fort Greene/Clinton Hill retailers and restaurants have behaved like they have captive consumers for too long. Why don’t Greene Pharmacy, Prospect Drugs, Behren’s Pharmacy, Fine Care Pharmacy, or Myrtle Pharmacy simply start selling homeopathic remedies and hire a staff member who knows something about them? Why doesn’t Beezu actually sell basic and commonly needed children’s clothing and toys instead of, like, the same five overpriced things (in different colors, mind) by the same three suppliers? Why don’t the Mets and Associated improve their fruit and cheese sections? Perhaps I shouldn’t question; after all, they’re committing some of the major business mistakes, and yet their doors are still open, so obviously they’re servicing somebody just fine.

In any case, I for one don’t mind the principles of retail experience finally coming to the neighborhood, as long as it trickles down from the frivolous places I’ll browse but rarely buy in to the stores I actually need on a day-to-day basis.

As with Dare Books, I’ve walked past the storefront at 763 Fulton (btw S. Portland and S. Oxford sts.) more times than I can count, but I haven’t often seen it open. Today was my lucky day, and I popped my head in to get the scoop on the tidy window display of black Americana.

I was greeted by David Day, who told me that his 10-year-old storefront was known as Lady Day at Demu Gallery (”The ‘lady’ is gone now,” he noted). It’s apparently a storage space for Demu Services, and David sells art, secondhand furniture, and the proudly displayed black Americana from the very front of the store. The segregation-era signs (”No dogs, no Negroes, no Mexicans”; “Help wanted - No Irish need apply”; “Coloreds served - Carry out only”) sell for $10, or $20 framed. I’m admittedly a little conflicted about this particular niche of black memorabilia, but it is compelling to see. David collects his items from all over the United States; he gestured to a nearby van that, he says, has clocked over 400,000 miles.

And what’s up with his hours? “When you see me here, I’m open. When you don’t see me here, I’m open,” David riffed. “If you call me at 3:30 in the morning because you see something you need — or, y’know, bad things will happen — I’m open,” handing me his number (718/596-8484). Now that’s what I call customer service.

Maybe it was too much unexpectedly uncomfortable sunlight, maybe too many pre-storm positive ions in the air today, but I find myself with a pocketful of peeves to share with you like so many marbles.

Dear 67 Burger:
I love your salty, crisped-edge beef patties; The Hub loves that you understand the words “medium rare”; The Scamp is all about your french fries. We don’t even mind that you don’t deliver; it’s worth the walk. However, if you are indeed going to make us walk to fetch our own 67 Burger goodness, can you please consider packing the food in recycled paper bags with handles? ‘Cos walking 12 blocks like this

while managing a stroller on bumpy sidewalks is pretty lame. And it makes me feel like my bag oughta have a McDonald’s logo on the side. Let’s kick it up a notch, ‘kay?

Dear Maclaren:
Love the lightness of the Volo. You understand how I’m living. Except for this:

A see-through panel at the top of the hood would surely add nothing to the weight of the stroller, and it would save me from constantly flipping or craning around the hood to see if The Scamp has stuck a Cheerio up his nose. Let’s work it out, ‘kay?

Dear New York City retailers:
There’s a modern concept known as customer service that you should bone up on. (Brooklyn retailers especially.) You see, there are magical places where a doctor’s office receptionist will actually take 30 seconds to make your appointment rather than put you on hold three times after picking up your call and then tell you to “call back in 10 minutes ‘cos we’re really busy right now.” Places where you can call a business to see if an item is in stock, and the operator doesn’t ring the necessary department eight times (yes, I counted) in vain because no one on the floor will be bothered to pick up the phone even after the operator pages them on the store intercom to tell them to pick up the damn phone. Places where once you’ve gotten someone on the phone, the response isn’t, “Hmm, I don’t know, I’ll see, call back in 10 minutes.” Places where, if the business is closed, they’ve been so kind as to have an answering machine pick up and give useful information like store hours and location. Places where store clerks actually stop gossiping for two minutes with their co-workers to acknowledge your existence, conduct your transaction with eye contact, and bid you a good day. I could go on — really, I could go on and on — but you get the idea. Let’s get real, ‘kay?

Dear Fresh Direct:
You may tout the eco-friendliness of your recycled boxes, but until you stop doing this

you are still a bit of an environmental disaster.

No love,

MotherSister Brooklyn.

One of the biggest “What’s up with that?” issues about Fort Greene/Clinton Hill for me has been the lack of a sizable general-interest bookstore. I will travel far and wide for a bookstore — my list of favorites is probably as long as my arm — but I spend more money at BookCourt, the Strand, and Amazon.com than I would if I could get my Haruki Murakami, Stop Smiling magazine, and assorted children’s books right in my own neighborhood. There’s no shortage of writers around — Touré, Jennifer Egan, and Susan Choi Wells are just several of the boldfaced names who live here, in addition to plenty of journalists — and it’s a literate community generally. So what gives?

The Sisyphean task of opening and operating a successful brick-and-mortar bookstore in New York City, that’s what. When I did some preliminary research and ran the numbers, I realized I didn’t have the stomach (or the deep pockets) to do it myself, no matter how much I loved the idea. While a few Brooklyn shops seem to be rocking along (like Vox Pop), many others are apparently pushing against the wind (like Freebird Books, according to this 2005 Times piece). For additional insight into the potential joys and challenges of running a bookstore in Fort Greene/Clinton Hill, I talked to Jenn Brissett, owner of Indigo Cafe & Books, a cozy shop in the heart of Fort Greene that went virtual in 2004. Her advice about opening a bookstore: “I hate to say it, but don’t do it.” Find out why after the jump.

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Just about 6 years ago, The Hub and I were awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of sirens, the smell of smoke, and the sight of leaping flames. In our disorientation, we thought our building was on fire. It turned out to be the brownstone diagonally across the street. We were relieved no one was hurt, but bummed to lose our corner bodega; we’d only moved in together about 6 months before, and nipping out to get a gallon of milk or a chocolate bar was a nice convenience. But we figured someone would swoop in and have it back in business within a year or two.

As you can see from the photo below, not quite.

Work is coming along, I guess, but I have a hard time believing the speculation I’ve heard that a cafe will operate from the ground floor here.

A year or two after this place burned, The Hub and I were awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of sirens, the smell of smoke, and the sight of leaping flames. Again. This time, it was a house across the street, and people were yelling to try to make sure anyone inside woke up and got out. Today, here it stands:

My reaction after two of these incidents in such a short amount of time was similar to my reaction after walking across the Williamsburg Bridge on 9/11 and then across the Brooklyn Bridge in the 2003 blackout: If I’ve gotta walk across the Manhattan Bridge to get home ( = if a building on the third corner across from us burns), it might be time to pull up stakes.

But I digress. My point: I read somewhere today that it’s possible to house all the homeless people in New York City in existing vacant structures in Manhattan alone. As expensive as real estate is in this town, as precious as space is, I never cease to be amazed by how much wasted space we still have.