How Prohibition Killed the Bowery

By Alice Sparberg Alexiou

Back in the days when the Bowery epitomized New York at its grittiest, most honkey-tonk, warm-hearted best—between the end of the Civil War and World War I—nothing was more important to the well being of the street’s motley population of artists, actors, immigrant poor, and bums than the saloon. Yes, the saloon. It was a Bowery institution. During the Bowery’s peak years, the 1890s, the street boasted nearly 100 saloons, each with its own clientele and reasons for existing. In the days of Tammany, specific saloons functioned as political clubhouses; there were “concert saloons,” where the races mingled and drank and sang and had a grand old time, singing and dancing to songs with dirty lyrics banged out on rinky-dink pianos, and waitresses doubled as prostitutes. In some saloons, homesick German and Irish immigrants found compatriots with whom to drink away their pain. And other saloons were like drunken old grandmothers who gathered all those Bowery bums into their beery bosoms and comforted them, providing shelter and the chance to convene with other bummy alcoholics, all of whom had run away to the Bowery from all over the country and the world with a specific purpose: to drink among others who were just like them.

Manhattan, Crime & Policing, Poverty & InequalityGuest UserFebruary 27, 2020 Comment

Rumrunners and Smugglers in New York City

By Ellen NicKenzie Lawson

“New York City, as the greatest liquor marker in the United States, is a great temptation for the rum runners,” wrote a Coast Guard Intelligence officer in the 8th year of Prohibition. Liquor to be smuggled ashore first was taken to Rum Row, an area of floating foreign liquor supply ships over 12 miles out off Long Island and Nantucket. Then American contact boats smuggled the liquor to shore.

Although smugglers had hundreds of miles of metropolitan waterfront to choose from, they preferred landing directly at docks on Manhattan’s twenty miles of shoreline, or in Brooklyn on the East River, or across the Hudson in Newark and Hoboken and, if necessary, farther up that river in Yonkers or Kingston. Smuggling directly to New York City saved smugglers the cost of trucking liquor from landings in eastern Long Island or south on the Jersey Shore. But smuggling directly into the Upper Bay was difficult: it was patrolled by Customs, the Marine Police, and the Coast Guard.

Crime & Policing, Waterfront & IslandsGuest UserFebruary 26, 2020Comment

The Rise and Fall of The Young Lords

Johanna Fernandez, interviewed by Beth Harpaz

One of the most influential groups of the radical ’60s was the Young Lords, an organization of poor and working class Puerto Ricans that began as a street gang and rose to confront the racism of institutions from government to religion. Johanna Fernandez, a professor of history at Baruch College, traces their roots and tells the story of their rise and fall in The Young Lords: A Radical History.

Crime & Policing, Interviews, Podcasts, Poverty & Inequality, Race & EthnicityGuest UserFebruary 6, 2020Comment

Remembering the Activism Campaign that Made Samuel Battle the First Black NYPD Officer

By Matthew Guariglia

Dedicated in 2009, Samuel Battle Plaza, at the sprawling intersection at 135th Street and Lenox Avenue, commemorates Samuel Jesse Battle who, in 1911, became the first African American appointed to the NYPD. Presided over by embattled NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly, the dedication came near the height of the protest movement against the department’s disproportionate stopping and frisking of young men of color in the city. At a moment of mass community resistance to Kelly’s NYPD, renaming served a political purpose. Creating a visible landmark to Samuel Battle at that pivotal moment preserved a narrative of symbiosis between the people of Harlem and the NYPD.

Race & Ethnicity, Crime & PolicingGuest UserDecember 17, 2019Comment

Material Politics of New York: From the Mafia’s Concrete Club to ISIS

By Vyta Baselice

Concrete receives far less attention than cocaine. And it seems for good reason as the two substances are most different: one is a building material while the other is a highly addictive drug; one is legal while the other is not; one materializes environments, like homes, offices, schools, and infrastructure while the other destroys families and communities. It is only in their beginnings as off-white powder that they appear to share any commonality. But what if I told you that politics around the two particles of dust was not especially different? What if I unearthed that concrete — much like cocaine — is embedded in histories of violence, illicit activity, and social and environmental harm?

Crime & Policing, Postwar New YorkPeter-Christian AignerOctober 17, 2019 Comment

When the Cops were Spies, and the Terrorists were Everywhere

By David Viola

Just after dawn on February 16th, 1965, two men drove a late-model Chevy through cold, quiet Bronx streets. Robert Steele Collier, twenty-eight, was an Air Force veteran who had received an other-than-honorable discharge after slashing a man in a London knife fight. In the years since his discharge, he had made his way to New York City and become involved in the more militant side of the Civil Rights movement. Even the belligerent Revolutionary Action Movement (RAM), which he joined, proved too faint-hearted for his taste.

Postwar New York, Crime & PolicingPeter-Christian AignerOctober 10, 2019Comment

Stonewall at 50: A Roundtable

Today on the blog, we mark the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots with a series of short essays by activists, writers, and scholars whose lives and work have been shaped by the events of June 1969 and their aftermath. This year, the scale of celebration and commemoration in New York is larger than ever — more than 4 million people are expected to attend this weekend’s festivities, and an estimated 115,000 people will be marching at Pride.

The Girl on the Velvet Swing

Reviewed by Emily Brooks

In The Girl on the Velvet Swing: Sex, Murder, and Madness at the Dawn of the Twentieth Century, Simon Baatz explores the dramatic and violent relationship between three infamous figures in late nineteenth and early twentieth century New York City. The story of Evelyn Nesbit, Stanford White, and Harry Thaw, a beautiful young performer, a famous middle-aged architect, and a notorious scion of a wealthy family, respectively, captivated their contemporaries and continues to appeal to historians more than a century later.

The State Versus Harlem

By Matt Kautz

Over the past few years, Americans have paid greater attention to the harm caused by opiates and rising heroin use, specifically in white, rural areas. The New York State Department of Health has dedicated a large portion of its website to sharing statistics of opioid overdoses in the state, warning signs about what addiction looks like, information on the state’s program for monitoring doctor’s prescriptions, and how those addicted can receive treatment.

“White Tigers Eat Black Panthers:” New York City’s Law Enforcement Group

By Jarrod Shanahan

In September 1968, three young members of the Black Panther Party (BPP) were arraigned in Brooklyn Criminal Court on charges stemming from a raucous Brooklyn street demonstration where uncollected garbage was set afire. BPP members and supporters rallied outside the court, hemmed in by New York Police Department (NYPD) cops who arrested two Party members for refusing to move behind a barricade. Upstairs, supporters were dramatically outnumbered by roughly 150 off-duty cops, many coming directly from the midnight to 8 a.m. shift, “barely concealing the guns and blackjacks tucked into their belts,” recalled mayoral aid Barry Gottehrer. “Some wore police badges.” The raucous crowd shouted “Win with [George] Wallace!” and “White power!”[1]