Brooklyn Was Mine

Writing in the American Scholar this fall, novelist and critic Melvin Jules Bukiet railed against what he called “Brooklyn Books of Wonder.” You know the type—think Eggers, think Safran Foer. “Take mawkish self-indulgence, add a heavy dollop of creamy nostalgia, season with magic realism, stir in a complacency of faith, and you’ve got wondrousness.” Well, Bukiet, you might want to avoid this book of essays about the borough.

Despite the inclusion of some heavy-hitting writers, Brooklyn Was Mine shines brightest when it records the voices of Brooklyn’s nonwriters. Thanks to Jennifer Egan, we get a glimpse of World War II–era Brooklyn through the Navy Yard letters of a vivacious Rosie the Riveter. Emily Barton’s story of a seltzer maker introduces us to Eli Miller, who’s been delivering old-fashioned siphoned bottles for 47 years (mmm, egg creams). We also learn a few 19th-century factoids: that Brooklyn’s sewers “were the gold standard,” for starters. And we’re grateful for a glimpse at today’s borough through the wary eyes of émigrés Lara Vapnyar and Dinaw Mengestu.

When the writers look navel-ward, however, they start to ring hollow. Lawrence Osborne’s account of feeling disoriented after a mere year in Thailand feels disingenuous. Katie Roiphe’s examination of her doomed marriage crowds out a promising portrait of the Coney Island her father knew. Self-indulgence and creamy nostalgia also mar Phillip Lopate’s wonder-full introduction: Turns out that the “vanished ideal” of neighborhoods still exists in “a few places, such as…Brooklyn.” Just don’t tell that to people who live in Jackson Heights, or to members of the Wu-Tang Clan.

—Brian Braiker

Brooklyn Was Mine contributors read Wed 9.