Revisiting the Bronx’s Decade of Fire as Fault Lines Reemerge Under Pandemic
©1980 Perla de Leon, South Bronx, My Playground.
-For Juan, Miguel, Milagros, Olga, Manuel…
In the 1970s, fires raged throughout the South Bronx. Abandoned by landlords and government officials, people were left to fend for themselves.
The documentary Decade of Fire reveals a web of failed policies and political trends—such as disinvestment, redlining, urban renewal, benign neglect, and false media narratives—that all contributed to the socioeconomic decline of the borough, the South Bronx especially. As manufacturing and white, middle-class families abandoned big cities, vulnerable communities of poor and working class families were left in an environment resembling a war zone.
The filmmakers’ analysis of the Fire Department of the City of New York and census public records revealed that the fires displaced upwards of a quarter million people and destroyed 80 percent of the housing stock. At the peak of the crisis, the Bronx was averaging up to 40 fires per night. Having been scapegoated by the media and subjected to political machinations, the community bore the unwarranted blame for the devastation. To this day, resilient, long-term Bronx community residents carry on with a sense of pride for having survived this calamitous period. Yet, not fully understanding the depth to which their lives were upended and nearly destroyed by the fires, some are still burdened by the collective trauma.
In Decade of Fire, Vivian Vazquez-Irizarry, co-director of the documentary, reflects on the pervasive conflagrations, as she recounts to her son, “It’s like the rug comes out from under you and you really don’t know what happened. The community didn’t see it coming. They’re in it and they can’t see that there are all these forces at play.” Her observation of the conditions she and her peers endured in the 1970s aptly describes the sentiments of essential workers on the frontlines of the pandemic today.
As Covid-19 ravages our communities, the same incessant fault lines emerge in the form of undeniable public health and economic failures.
The Poor and People of Color Pay the Highest Price
Unsurprisingly, African Americans/Black and Latino families have been disproportionately impacted by the pandemic. These are the same people who have inequitable access to living wage jobs and health insurance, and contend with the highest environmental risks and occupational hazards. Often residing in nutritional deserts these persons not only suffer food insecurity but financial insecurity with little or no access to capital. Despite their dominant presence as frontline workers, integral to everyone’s welfare, they tend to have the highest rates of morbidity and mortality. While poverty or social inequity shouldn’t equal a death sentence, the marginalized are more likely to pay the highest price.
It serves us well to review the actions taken by Black and Puerto Rican residents blamed and falsely maligned for the South Bronx’s devastation. They battled daily to save their neighborhoods, in many instances literally with their bare hands. Left with little recourse, a generation reclaimed and recreated their world. Through sweat equity and steadfast community-based organizing, these communities rose above institutionalized and systematic government neglect. These unsung heroes saved their communities, one building at time, block by block, with little, if any, government support.
In the face of broken promises, community activists recognized what they needed to do: Stay, Fight and Build.
Ramon Rueda, founder of the People’s Development Corporation, based in the Bronx, says in Decade of Fire that he saw “The federal government lacked the compassion and interest in our people.” He experienced the blight of burnt-out, abandoned buildings, but knew they were worth saving, as did many residents willing to learn construction skills to put in the necessary labor to transform these decimated structures and make them fit for human occupancy.
Likewise, the late community educator and activist Hetty Fox saw value in rescuing the buildings on her block. She said she would sleep with her boots on: "I had to be ready to jump up and run, jump up and fight, at a moment's notice.” Hetty succeeded in creating a safe block where children could be joyful and free. She tuned it like “one would tune an instrument,” as she says in the film. “The sounds that children make is healing,” added Hetty, who tuned the block to hear the sounds of children at play, listening for “that pitch of happiness.” She also organized building residents, pooled resources, and met weekly to ensure the building would stay in their hands. Her efforts led to building the largest tenant-run housing co-op program in the nation.
Past Meets Present
The web of nefarious conditions that triggered a decade of fire in the 1970s, remains in place in 2020, foreboding the dawn of a dire period. The fact that the pandemic's impact on our nation’s poorest urban and rural communities, has now reached Native American communities, further highlights deep-rooted unresolved and persistent inequities. The Navajo Nation, already contending with lack of potable water and medical resources, and dwindling tribal elders, recently surpassed New York and New Jersey for the highest per-capita Covid-19 infection rates.
As of May 25, 2020, the number of lives lost worldwide exceeds 336,000. In the U.S.A. alone, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) data indicate 1.5 million confirmed cases and more than 100,000 deaths.
Reflecting underlying inequities, the poorest neighborhoods in New York City continue to be the most impacted. The highest per capita caseloads are in Brooklyn and Queens, followed by the Bronx. In fact, according to The City, Bronx residents are twice as likely to die from Covid-19. The majority of fatalities include senior citizens and people with preexisting health conditions, including diabetes, asthma, hypertension, cancer and heart disease—conditions most prevalent in poor communities. Some accounts believe that the number of cases formally reported is likely much lower since we lack a comprehensive, robust system for widespread testing and contact tracing, especially in Black and Brown communities.
"The amount of deaths is getting to me," exclaims Brother North of the Bronx-based Hip Hop group, Division X. In the epicenter of the epicenter, the communities hardest hit, face an existential crisis. Death is at your door or just a degree of separation away. “There’s trauma and disparity on every level. I see it every day. I walk by makeshift morgues to get to work,” explains Kelly Monaghan, a coordinator of preventive services for women at Bronx Care.
©1980 Perla de Leon. Neighborhood church.
“Firefighters in the South Bronx” (Joe Conzo)
For each 100,000 Americans (of their respective groups), 40.9 Blacks have died, along with about 17.9 Asians, 17.9 Latinos and 15.8 Whites, according to the APM Research Lab. But in New York State, where Latinos comprise 19 percent of the population, they have suffered 27 percent of deaths. In early May, 5,910 Latinos were known to have died in New York (including 5,220 in New York City), which has experienced the highest overall (and Latino) mortality rate of any U.S. state.
Retired veteran, homeless shelter volunteer and Bronx resident, Ronald Fleming, shares, “When you are poor, you know that no one is coming to help you. I see people who have been neglected and struggling to survive. Many essential workers have lost their jobs. They’ve lost everything. Those who can work, work long, arduous hours, despite the risk.” He adds, “The previously employed can't make ends meet. They are going to food banks to feed their family in an attempt to avoid shelters, because shelters are breeding grounds for the virus. But, with no money and nowhere to go, they are on the brink of homelessness. ”
If the Covid-19 crisis proves anything, it is that despite socioeconomic divisions we are equally human, although not equally vulnerable in the face of death.
Bronx educator/activist Hetty Fox standing in front of a South Bronx community center. Courtesy of Decade of Fire.
From a public health standpoint, it is shocking but not surprising that preventive wellness and access to healthcare, clean water and quality food for all are not part of our nation’s priorities. We are all exposed, but many across the U.S. with compromised immunities face a higher risk of exposure to the virus. Frontline communities who bear disproportionate burdens of failed policies, unremitting disinvestment and toxic environments embody compounding co-morbidities. They also bear the greatest job losses and hunger. According to the Bureau of Labor statistics, one fifth of Latinas nationwide lost jobs due to Covid-19, the highest of any demographic. Witness the interminable lines at food banks in our poorest neighborhoods since the pandemic lockdown began. The trauma and stress of extreme inequality, generational poverty, anxiety, depression, social isolation, addiction, diabetes, HIV, asthma, sickle cell, obesity, and more add to their vulnerabilities. When people realize there is no safety net for all, how do we make sense of this current crisis?
Enter Community Activists
What can we learn about how the Bronx finally stopped the fires? The community came together; they organized. A collective of individuals, including parents, clergy and students pushed, and as a result, the city finally assigned marshals to look into the fires. Community organizing is what saved the Bronx.
A few years before these efforts, fighting against a backdrop of social injustices, vanguard Black and Latino youth leaders created the Young Lords movement to devise and implement human-centered strategic social interventions and bold public actions to assert that health, food, housing and education are fundamental human rights. Although the Global South is heir to a legacy of colonialism, oppression and racism, the Young Lords taught us we can’t rely on the politics or policies of oppressors.
Today, essential, formerly invisible workers—Juan, Miguel, Milagros, Olga, Manuel—sacrifice themselves to help others with more access and privilege. They place their bodies on the frontlines of this global pandemic. These brave souls keep the city’s transit moving, ensure that grocery and basic food establishments remain open, deliver food, parcels and mail conveniently to our homes, and sanitize medical facilities. These persons continue to work, some out of dire need, many with pride and a sense of duty. They put their lives on the line for the rest of us. But, will they remain essential, valued, and respected when we get to the other side of the pandemic and begin to live life under the conditions of a new normal?
The 1971 nonfiction film El Pueblo Se Levanta documents the Young Lords’ take-over of the People’s Church in East Harlem. In it, the late poet Pedro Pietri recites his epic poem, “Puerto Rican Obituary” honoring the working class and poor who have no more left to give. Profoundly resonant to our times, Pietri exalts the nameless by naming them.
Here lies Juan
Here lies Miguel
Here lies Milagros
Here lies Olga
Here lies Manuel
who died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Always broke
Always owing
Never knowing
that they are beautiful people
“I lived through the fires, drugs, HIV/AIDS and mass incarceration, housing injustice and the displacement due to gentrification happening today. But what I also see is a new generation of young people, who want to get involved,” says Socrates Caba, a life-long resident of the South Bronx. He adds, “I see young people wanting to understand how government works at the local level. They have the desire to organize and are willing to have hard conversations.”
At a time when the social fabric of the country is frayed, we need to bolster our resilience through trust, mutual aid, people-to-people support and community solidarity. There is no substitute for grassroots organizing and the spirit of engagement. Our society needs people of all colors and ethnicities working together, in common cause, to make radical, loving change, and to fight for justice.
How do we begin this work? Not everyone needs to assume the role of an organizer to contribute. Perhaps we can begin by asking ourselves: What kind of a community, city, nation, world do we want to live in? Does a neighbor, particularly the elderly or sick in our building, or on your block, need help or any form of assistance? Ask yourself, do you know your neighbors name?
Neyda Martinez, an Associate Professor in The New School’s Department of Media Management, is a Producer of Decade of Fire.
Special thanks to Professor Arlene Davila, New York University (NYU) and founder of the LatinX Project; Néstor David Pastor, Intervenxions Managing Editor, NYU; Fernando Ramirez, Esq.; Chelsea de Jesus; and, Tania Lambert.
Decade of Fire film credits: Co-Director/Producer, Vivian Vazquez-Irizarry; Co-Director/Producer, Gretchen Hildebran; Producer/Impact Producer, Julia Steele Allen; Producer, Neyda Martinez. To learn about future broadcasts on PBS’ Independent Lens series, visit ITVS. To join our community and to access educational resources, updates and information, visit www.decadeoffire.com