New York City in the 1980s and ‘90s was home to a squatting movement unlike any other in the United States. Drawing on their diverse radical and progressive roots, squatters claimed and occupied city-owned abandoned building with a winning combination: a Yippie sense of drama and fun, punk rock aggression and subcultural grit, and urban homesteaders’s earnest appeals to American values of self-sufficiency and initiative. When faced with eviction, they learned how to build barricades and booby traps and drum up riots from their European counterparts, and each attempt to evict Lower East Side squatters from the late ‘80s on brought newly escalated police and squatter tactics. By the mid-1990s, the police were using tanks and helicopters, and the squatters were burning cars in the streets.
In 2002, after three years of secret negotiations, the city shocked everyone involved when it agreed to sell the remaining squatted buildings, for one dollar each, to a non-profit (UHAB – the Urban Homesteading Assistance Board) which would take out loans on the squatters’s behalf to renovate the buildings and bring them up to code. The former squats would then be converted to limited-equity low-income cooperatives, and the renovation loans would become mortgages. Illegal squatters would thus be transformed into indebted homeowners, problematic unsellable buildings into low-income housing. This was easier said than done: by 2013, only five of the eleven buildings in the legalization deal had been converted into co-ops.
I am a cultural anthropologist, oral historian, and former squatter, and I started doing research with former squatters on the Lower East Side whose buildings were being converted into co-ops because I was interested in how people make claims on urban space, and how property relations shape our lives. Of course I expected that I’d be doing oral history as part of the research, but I was pleasantly surprised to find, when I started the work in 2009, that I was late to the game. Former squatters had already started an archive at NYU and recorded oral histories for it. And this was just the tip of the iceberg: some were creating art shows about their history, or leading walking tours, even starting museums. Oral history was no longer just a method; it became my object of inquiry. Why, I asked, were people doing all of this history-making work? Asking the question from a broader perspective, why does this history matter?
In January, 2017, I brought together a panel of documentarians at UnionDocs to discuss this question. They were all telling the story of squatting on the Lower East Side, but in different genres, for different reasons, and from different positions. Some were deep insiders, others near-total outsiders. They had created graphic novels, archives, films, and murals. I wrote a book. With a room packed full of people, just a few days before Donald Trump was to be inaugurated as president, we talked about how history changes meaning over time, and how these stories could be of use in the present moment.
There is no longer a large stock of vacant, city-owned apartment buildings ripe for squatting in New York City. The booming real estate market and the Third Party Transfer Program took care of that. But there are still vacant buildings being warehoused by speculators and debate continues about how to make land use decisions in the city. The gentrification that was looming at the height of the squatting movement is now the biggest threat to our city’s democracy and livability. And we can still learn something from the history of squatting about how to make collective claims on urban space that translate into real collective property rights.
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When I started doing political work, I could get books on anarchism, I could get books on communism from all different perspectives, I could get a lot of books about the Russian Revolution, I could get books about Nicaragua, I could get some books about the environment. But nothing prepared me for the actual experience of organizing, the experience of working in a community to try to fix up a building, of having to deal with police harassment, of having to protect people against various types of abuse when you know you can’t go to the police, of what to do when people in your community are addicted to hard drugs and starting to act out. There was nothing to prepare me for that. So at the end of my experience with the squatter community, I said, “This is an experience that would be useful to someone else.” These are experiences that are part of activism, that are part of working in a community. We’re not trained in this society to work with other people. We’re trained to work for other people and to have other people work for us, and to think about ourselves; we’re not trained to have a community of people who decide things democratically. That was a problem we faced in the squats, and it’s a problem people faced in Occupy, and it’s a problem we’re going to face next week when we go to Washington. I knew I took the risk of alienating friends, making myself look like an idiot, by being honest about my experiences. But I feel that I have more of an obligation to the next generation of activists than I do to myself or my friends.
– Seth Tobocman at UnionDocs, January 15, 2017
Click the image to enlarge and page through Fly’s sketchbook.
The public narratives about this history have painted squatters as either villains – thieves, outsiders, line-jumpers, usurpers, even sell-outs – or heroes – brave and entrepreneurial activists who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, using direct action to save much-needed housing from decay (and the market!). By using close-up methods like oral history and ethnography, I can tell a more complicated story. For example, some residents of the legalizing squats, like Maggie Wrigley, saw the deal as a vindication of the squatters, and a victory for low-income housing and against public-private partnerships to create affordable housing via the market.
Listen to excerpts from Amy’s oral history interviews.
At the same time, Maggie concedes that something has been lost with legalization:
Others, like Geoff Dann, saw it as a trick, a roundabout way for the city to defang the squatters and purge those among them not willing to conform to middle-class norms:
I think these kinds of complicated stories are necessary if we want to learn from the experiences of earlier generations who struggled to make a space for themselves in the city. Yes, we need triumphant stories. We need to be inspired, and to hear that direct action works. But then, especially as we encounter both the astounding highs and the devastating lows of activist life, and all the boring stuff in between, we need to know that it was hard for other people, too, that they struggled with race and class and gender in their movements, they made mistakes, awful things happened, and it was still worth it.
In closing, two concrete lessons we can learn from this history:
1. Direct action gets the goods! Physically claiming and holding space is a powerful tactic, especially when you can make successful moral claims on it in the public sphere.
2. The market, even the constrained market of the low-income, limited equity co-op, will not provide housing to the most vulnerable among us. To have a vibrant city, we need robust non-market solutions like social housing and community land trusts.
I feel blessed to come at this with so much ignorance and so much freshness, because I think that’s an interesting perspective to think about why the history matters. For Fly and for Seth, it matters on so many levels, because it’s of historical importance but it’s also of personal importance. But I didn’t have that experience, so I was viewing it truly through the historic lens.
When I was working on my first book, which was about unemployment, in 2011, I drove across the country. I was interviewing people about the jobs they had lost, and I asked them to tell me about that experience. if I had a nickel for every time I heard the phrase “American Dream,” I would have had enough money to pay for my gas across the country, and probably to give money to everybody I interviewed. This idea of the American Dream kept coming up again and again, and it was so annoying, on the one hand, because it’s such an elusive idea. When I’d ask people to tap into what they were talking about when they were talking about the American Dream, it was always a very shape-shifting thing. But it definitely involved two things: it definitely involved working hard — picking yourself up by the bootstraps — and it definitely involved owning something — owning a house and a white picket fence.
As I met Jerry and became familiar with the scene that he was a part of, I really got the feeling that I was being introduced to a revised vision of the American Dream, new interpretations of what you can make of yourself in this country. Squatting tends to make us think about urban landscape, but in a way Jerry and the movement remind me a lot of the national parks. What it comes down to is a competing vision for how we can orient ourselves as a society. It’s stewardship versus ownership, and it makes me think of John Muir, it makes me think of Yosemite, and it makes me think that we can have spaces that we share. In some ways that’s very un-American. But as has been documented by a lot of historians, America, as it was founded by the white Europeans, didn’t have cathedrals or colosseums. They recognized the majesty of the land in North America — Yosemite and the Grand Canyon and Arches National Park — and preserved them. Those are the things that we share and we take care of together. When I started meeting squatters, the people Jerry lived with, I saw that this idea of working hard and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps was very present. Fly demonstrated this, mixing cement, putting flooring down, roofs — that idea of hard work is there. But it’s that divergence after the hard work, where it goes to a place of stewardship more than a place of ownership, that’s valuable as we move forward.
– DW Gibson at UnionDocs, January 15, 2017
Trailer: Jerry the Peddler (DW Gibson 2017)
La siembra del hogar//Sowing Homes is a multimedia ground mural at Extra Place alley in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. The project, part of FABnyc’s ArtUp program, created by Cooperativa Cultural 19 de enero (CC1/19), was inspired by oral histories with squatters conducted by Amy Starecheski for her book, as well as by more recent narratives of Bushwick residents fighting off displacement.
With this public art project, the artists intended to listen to the histories of the space, and then uplift some of the important stories around housing and home struggles that inhabit the neighborhood. With New York City becoming more and more a place where only some can afford to call it home, it seems pertinent to remind folks that there are long and nuanced histories of resistance, creative responses, and collective strategies outside of the formal housing system, such as those used by the squatters in the Lower East Side.
La siembra del hogar//Sowing Homes. Timelapse by Raúl Ayala, audio by Fernanda Espinosa & Daniel Pasquel.
Cooperativa Cultural 19 de enero (CC 1/19) is an ongoing collaboration between visual artist Raúl Ayala and oral history artist Fernanda Espinosa. Since 2015, they have been creating public interventions containing place-based histories.
Fly-O is an Illustrator, Comics Artist, Painter, Graphic Designer, Teacher, Writer, Musician, and long-time LES Squatter, Activist, and Squat Historian. She has been self-publishing zines and comics since the mid ’80s, and her work has appeared in the Village Voice, Juxtapoze, Punk Magazine, Maximumrocknroll, New York Press, Comics Journal, SF Bay Guardian, and multiple other publications. Fly was the recipient of a 2013 Acker Award for “Excellence Within the Avant-Garde” for her long running PEOPs Project :: an ever expanding collection of portraits and stories of extraordinary people who live life with passion and conviction.
DW Gibson is the author of the award-winning book The Edge Becomes the Center: An Oral History of Gentrification in the Twenty-First Century and Not Working: People Talk About Losing a Job and Finding Their Way in Today’s Changing Economy. He shared a National Magazine Award for his work on “One Block” for New York Magazine. His work has also appeared in Harper’s, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Nation, The Village Voice, and The Caravan. Gibson has been a contributor to NPR’s All Things Considered and “There Goes the Neighborhood,” a podcast co-produced by WNYC and The Nation. His documentary film, Not Working, a companion to the book, is available through Films Media Group. His directorial debut, Pants Down, premiered at Anthology Film Archives in New York. Gibson serves as director of Writers Omi at Ledig House in Ghent, New York, and he co-founded Sangam House, a writers’s residency in India, along with Arshia Sattar.
Amy Starecheski is a former squatter, cultural anthropologist, and oral historian whose research focuses on property and history in cities. She co-directs the Oral History MA Program at Columbia University and has a PhD in cultural anthropology from the CUNY Graduate Center. Her book, Ours to Lose: When Squatters Became Homeowners in New York City, came out in 2016 with the University of Chicago Press. In 2016, she won the SAPIENS-Allegra “Will the Next Margaret Mead Please Stand Up?” prize for public anthropology writing.
Seth Tobocman is a comic book artist whose work often deals with political issues from a radical and independent point of view. He founded the magazine World War 3 Illustrated with Peter Kuper in 1979 and has been part of the editorial collective ever since. His work has appeared in The New York Times, The Village Voice, Heavy Metal and many other magazines. He is author of a number of graphic books including: You Don’t Have to Fuck People Over to Survive, War in the Neighborhood, Portraits of Israelis and Palestinians, Disaster and Resistance, Understanding the Crash, and Len (a lawyer in history). Tobocman’s art has been shown at the Museum Of Modern Art, The New Museum Of Contemporary Art, The Museum Of The City Of Ravenna, Exit Art, and ABC No Rio. His images have been used as posters, murals, banners, and tattoos by peoples movements from squatters in New York’s Lower East Side to the African National Congress in South Africa.
The views expressed here are those of the authors only and do not reflect the position of Urban Omnibus editorial staff or The Architectural League of New York.