“This is a valley of ashes — a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.”

                           F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby. Willets
                           Point is said to have inspired this passage.

Vultures are circling the men of Willets Point, a decrepit community of garages, salvage lots, and chop shops. While decades of redevelopment plans have been floated and failed for this graceless corner of Queens, the current scheme—$3 billion worth of malls, condos, and hotels—seems likely to stick.

Conditions in the area haven’t changed much since Fitzgerald’s day. The primitive toilets installed by the first arrivals are still being used; Willets Point isn’t hooked up to the New York City sewage system. Bicycle is the only way to get around; cars can’t navigate the craters that litter the unpaved streets.

The workers aren’t a particularly sympathetic bunch. They are almost universally male, Latino, and hostile to outsiders. Trust is a precious commodity in a place where so many have troubles with the law, immigration and otherwise

But there’s an unmistakeable air of pride and machismo in Willets Point. The area may be dim and crumbling but it is decorated with a tree of taillights and other “environmental sculptures.” The workers style their hair into gravity-defying pompadours, press their overalls, and keep their name tags pristine white.

By and large, they are resigned to their fate. A group continues to fight in court and City Hall but the end seems inevitable. Sometimes, when grit is blown into your mouth, or you wave to a seller of used windshield wiper assemblies who’s been sitting—apparently, for years—on the driver’s seat of an old corvette, you wonder about the wisdom of the fight. But I guess home is where you find it. 

                              —P.B.