The killing fields...in Brooklyn

I've never made such a bold move. I've left the security of midtown Manhattan and submerged myself in a culture where I am the minority. I now live in a neighborhood called Bushwick, where people used to burn their houses for the insurance money and, as I was told today by a professor, many used to call it "the killing fields."

Pol Pot, fortunately, is no longer on the throne in Bushwick. Rather, a patchwork of latinos and African Americans beat the sidewalks and line the subway stations. My roomate, Luke, told a story today of how he passed another white guy on the street in our neighborhood and instantly was drawn to him: "I thought, 'dude, another one!'"

Our street reminds me of old school Harlem, where neighbors are family, kids run around carlessly free, and old-time melodies hijack the air and bounce off the kissing buildings. Last night I finally got to bed at 2 am after the 50 somethings across the street finally turned off their curbside stereo, silencing Gladys Knight and the Pips and her Motown counterparts.

Throughout the evenning, random yelling, cursing, and laughing fill the air like sporatic firworks on the Fourth of July. Earlier today I heard someone get hit by a car. Most people ignored it--to New Yorkers, the sight and sound of sirens is like a canary to a mountain man. But this is home.

Below are some videos I took during our first night in this strange, yet captivating place. We have named our place, "Halsey House." For the next 9 months we hope to make it through the killing fields. So far, the outlook is good.