Shamir at the Brownsville Houses. Credit Brenda Ann Kenneally for The New York Times
He couldn’t seem to keep himself from testing danger in the projects, teetering between kids who had already committed serious crimes and people like his brother who made it out. At his age, both paths were still possible, but Brownsville’s darker corners suck up all but the most exceptional boys.Read more here.
He is the youngest boy in a large family that is spread across several apartments in Brownsville; he has more half siblings from different mothers than he can quickly recall. His father works nights in a group home for men recently released from prison, and his stepmother prepares taxes. His mother died when he was young. Shamir seldom spoke of his family, with the exception of his brother Sonnie, who no longer lived in the neighborhood but had taken on the task of trying to guide him. Sonnie introduced me to Shamir and arranged for us to spend time together, because he wanted to expose his brother to an outsider, and he wanted an outsider to see in.
Gerald Nelson is the police chief who supervises Brooklyn North, the area that includes Brownsville. With some pride, Nelson calls his command the most challenging in the city, in large part because of the crime in Brownsville, which he attributes overwhelmingly to boys and men between the ages of 15 and 25. He said the Police Department’s law-enforcement strategy was focused mostly on monitoring and disrupting the loosely affiliated groups of boys, or crews, as they call them, using social media, because the crews like to brag about their exploits on Facebook. Nelson distinguishes between boys he calls “young stallions,” who are at “that age” with hormones raging, toeing the line between right and wrong, and boys who at 14 or 15 have already been arrested several times for serious crimes. The department lets the young stallions roam, offering what access it can to outreach and mentoring programs. Nelson devotes much of his resources to the others. “If you didn’t see police contact, and you didn’t see stop-and-frisk, and you didn’t see them being collared, believe it or not, you are following the good kids,” Nelson said.
But being a good kid in Brownsville does not bring the same promise as being a good kid in other places. Nelson describes a neighborhood that is improving — crime is down 71 percent over the last two decades — and in that context, a kid like Shamir, who has not fallen into the system, is a symbol of progress. Still, he seemed adrift. Whenever I asked him what he wanted in the future, his answer was swift and certain: “To make it out of the hood. Get up out of here.” Yet he said he had no idea how to do that, even with his parents’ apartment outside the projects that he could call home.
Shamir’s older brother Sonnie, who is 33, made it out, and he was around Shamir’s age when he did. He eventually went to college and worked as a bank manager before establishing himself as a touring rap artist. Now he has an apartment in the suburbs.
Sonnie played in the same parks as Shamir, but in the ‘90s, when the drug trade in Brownsville was at its height. When he was 9 or 10, a man interrupted his skelly game and told him and his friends to run along. “He said it in a nice manner, like he was about to serve hot dogs and hamburgers or something,” Sonnie recalled. Instead, the man shot another man and walked off.
Sonnie has nostalgia for that time, even though there was more crime, because at least the violence was predictable; people were fighting over something — drug money — not fighting over nothing. To some extent, the drug dealers contained the collateral damage. They could still be heroes. They parked their cars on the street that runs along 284 Park in a display of their riches. It was the era of Mazda Millenias and Mitsubishi Diamantes. “You see people who have chains, cars or money or always come through with pretty girls, and you see the way everybody acts when this person comes around, and you’re like, ‘Oh, I want that,’ ” Sonnie said. “Because it’s a good feeling.”
“Tilden is just a war zone.” He said the police could not stop the violence. “They already did what they can do. It’s never going to stop.”
Snagz said, “They growing up from little kids, and it keeps going.”
“From generation to generation to generation,” Fifty said.
Snagz said: “It’s crazy. When you young, you love violence. But as soon as you get older, start growing into your adult years, you get tired of that. I’m tired. I’m just trying to get money. When everybody gets older, they just start wanting to get money.” Snagz was 16.
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