KRISTEN BONARDI RAPP was ready to love her Washington Heights neighbors—if they’d let her.

By Kristen Bonardi Rapp


The day I moved to Washington Heights, a kid stood on the sidewalk and stared at me. It was sweltering that day, and even though it wasn’t the most practical choice for moving day, I wore one of those tank tops with the built-in bras, so I immediately feared the worst: I must have popped out of my top while picking up a box. Why else would an 8-year-old boy stare at me like that?

I looked down. I was decent, but he was still staring. Then it became clear: I was the white lady moving into this Dominican kid’s home. I made eye contact with him and smiled uncertainly, as if to say: Sorry, kid, it’s true. I live here now. The kid looked away.

Choosing Washington Heights had been easy: It was affordable, and it was in Manhattan. What else did I need to know? As I packed up my old apartment in Boston, I read Washington Heights’ Wikipedia page as if it were scripture. I learned the neighborhood had been a refuge for European Jews in the 1930s and ’40s, who were then displaced by Greeks in the 1960s. By thata time, Washington Heights had become “the Astoria of Manhattan.â€