Good intentions, but no safety net

East New York, at the end of the 3 train in Brooklyn, is one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. Over half the population lives under the poverty line, and infant mortality is way above the city average.

This week's financial crisis has created a near-panic for many people this community - no, not the employees of city agencies, not the residents themselves, but people who work at nonprofits. As Lehman Brothers and other firms have folded, it suddenly seems like most of the major sources of charitable funding have dried up overnight.

Some of the nonprofits in East New York are the best in the city, programs that have won praise and major grants in the past. Over the years they've gained a larger and larger role in people's lives. Many of them provide the most basic services: shelter, childcare, furniture, legal help. There are also dozens of churches that provide food, many reporting a drop in their tithing income.

New Yorkers have yet to see what will happen to these organizations and to the people who rely on them.

In a short walk through the neighborhood, you'd come across a huge number of charitable programs, sometimes a few to a block. Here's a cross-section of what's available in East New York and the kinds of things they do:


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Mini Profile: Long gone are the washing dishes days

Freddy Gonzales’ story is the perfect example of an immigrant success story. In just six months he was promoted from washing dishes in a restaurant and juice shop on Bay Ridge 5th Avenue, in Brooklyn to actually managing it.

It all happened in just six months. “It is all about working hard,” Gonzales said while preparing one of his famous protein shake. “It makes you move up as quickly as you can imagine.” When he to New York from a small village on the US-Mexican border, six years ago Gonzales enrolled in English and management classes. Impressed with the speed with which he was learning and improving, the owner of the restaurant promoted him to manager. It also helped that the former manager decided one day to quit without prior notice. “I do everything now,” Gonzales said with pride and a wide smile.

Profile: Bernard Wannamaker

Photo: At Bernard Wannamaker's wake


Bernard “A’jah” Wannamaker, 27, died last Saturday of a fatal stabbing in Bushwick, Brooklyn. He had just gotten out of prison one month ago and was one month away from his 28th birthday.

Wannamaker was a barber by profession and planned to have his own barbershop someday. He liked to DJ and was going to do just that at the block party when he was murdered. He also liked to fix bikes and he got his GED in prison. His cousin Cory “Sincere” Wannamaker said, “his swagger was crazy.”

On Weirfield Street where Wannamaker grew up and died, a small photograph, eight candles and a handful of people on the sidewalk signal the wake. His family said that the killing was a classic example of “baby’s mamma’s drama” because his ex-wife’s boyfriend was the one who stabbed him. Wannamaker had a child by his ex- and three stepdaughters by his current girlfriend.

Moment: Seance at Cypress Hills

We had all the essentials: nine white candles, two guidebooks, a flashlight, and of course, the Ouija board.

Making our way up Jamaica Avenue, our six-person troop stopped at Jackie Robinson Parkway. Our car seemed miles away, the surrounding neighborhood of East New York a wall of boarded-up brownstones and dilapidated Victorian mansions. Dusk illuminated the evening sky with an array of burnt colors. It was perfect weather for a séance.

“This is it guys, we have to go in through here,” my good friend Katy Desmond, a 22 year-old publishing marketer said. She had written her college thesis on paranormal activity and was an expert fence jumper.

The fringe of the Cypress Hills Cemetery was surrounded by a rusty, jagged lattice. The crematorium was the only break in this chain. Surveying the graveyard we were initially terrified by a group of dogs we assumed were the night watch. To our relief, they were just feral.

Perspiration dripped from my upper lip leaving a salty residue. I cursed myself for ever agreeing to this. The group braced to jump the corroded barrier. Jamaica Avenue turned red. It was every person for himself. Up and eventually over, pants ripped, candles shattered, purses spilled, and flip-flops landed in every direction. However clumsily, we had done it. We were on our way to the other side.