A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Some books never leave us. They remain fixed in our minds and psyche. One such that remains in mine is A Tree grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. The title of this novel refers to a tree that grows persistently up through the concrete and harsh conditions of a poor tenement neighbourhood in early 1900's Brooklyn. It also symbolises Francie Nolan's struggle through her life. When I first read it in 2010, I was going through a very important academic submission- an Architecture thesis. As I read through the pages, I looked at Francie as myself. I grew up with her along the pages. She lived in me. I remember sobbing, and crying while reading her plight but she also gave me tremendous courage and filled me with an undying fighter spirit. The book was written in 1943 and describes a turn of the century story of the Nolans from 1900-1919. I recall reading and visualising Francie sitting in the Fire Escape harbouring dreams of an education and better life for her family and herself. I did that too. It seemed so dreamy then. Sitting by a tree, looking down on children playing on concrete slabs and staring at the distant sky, perhaps searching for a better future. As Francie imagined all this, I did too. 

It's rarely that we come across works of literature that reflect our thoughts, dreams and visions. Five years after first reading about Francie and her journey, I am re-reading portions from the book and now that a friend said he noticed a resemblance in Francie and me, I see myself differently. I always considered her as a fierce individual and myself too. I have fought my way wherever I had to. And the struggles have strengthened me instead of breaking my nerves, as I feared back then. This life is not one that I imagined to be a decade ago or five years ago. But then, our dreams keep changing, we change too in a major way. We are no longer the same people who set out foot on the journey we all take in the course of growing up. Good things happen, though fewer, bad things crop up every nook and corner but the sunshine that mellows us after a rough patch is worth all the trouble. WE really can hope to be just a notch better than we give ourselves credit for. Uncalled situations, people, our own existence- these are the only constant things to happen with everyone. He, who is happy always, or claims to be, only knows the misery behind it all. Happiness exists not as a permanent switch in our lives but rather a swish- temporary, mostly just a flicker to lighten up the dark corners of our spirited minds hallowed by the grimness of daily weariness. 

TO all who are struggling to find a place in the world, wherever it might be, Francie will serve as a fierce inspiration. She was a dreamer, an idealist, somebody who prayed, "Dear God, let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well-dressed. Let me be sincere- be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost." And yet she brings a childlike innocence and enthusiasm in me. I perk up at her memory. I see myself sitting on that fire exit, reading passages from my favourite books, leaning on to the window sill, taking in the red of the Gulmohar petals, unfazed by the grey concrete around me, taking a mental leap towards the vast blue sky. Yes, for me, the clouds take me wherever I wish to be. I fly higher, sprightly running through the gorges, and also frozen in time on a road with yellowed leaves where everything is speeding but for me. 

“There's a tree that grows in Brooklyn. Some people call it the Tree of Heaven. No matter where its seed falls, it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky. It grows in boarded-up lots and out of neglected rubbish heaps. It grows up out of cellar gratings. It is the only tree that grows out of cement. It grows lushly . . . survives without sun, water, and seemingly without earth. It would be considered beautiful except that there are too many of it.”