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For almost two centuries, the tapestry of New York City's Chinatown has woven together an unmistakably American narrative: the convergence of immigrant laborers and their kin, harmoniously coexisting within the modest confines of low-slung tenement housing.Â
Among these diligent workers is Dennis Chung, proprietor of Pasteur Grill and Noodles, an establishment dishing out authentic Vietnamese pho. His tenure spans an impressive 27 years on the western cusp of the neighborhood, a tenure that has weathered a gauntlet of trials - from the tragic events of 9/11 to the ravages of Hurricane Sandy and the disruptive onset of the Covid pandemic.
Yet, a new emblem of the American ethos is taking form, poised directly opposite Chung's cherished establishment: a sprawling correctional facility, a jail of vast proportions.Â
Anticipated to ascend around 300 feet into the skyline, this novel edifice is poised to attain the distinction of being the world's loftiest incarceration establishment.Â
Unsettlingly, Chung suggests that this imposing construction could potentially spell the undoing of his business. Expressing his concerns in Cantonese, he articulates, "With the jail combined with the pandemic, it might be curtains for us."
While city officials and proponents of justice reform argue that the emergence of this new jail is an essential step towards shuttering the disreputable Rikers Island, a notorious prison that New York's city council decreed to close in 2019, skeptics like Chung contend that its advent might prove a terminal blow to the neighborhood's vitality. The council's decision aimed to replace Rikers Island with four smaller correctional facilities scattered across the city by 2027, with one such facility earmarked for Chinatown. The planners of this venture assert that this facility will serve as a more compassionate institution conveniently situated within proximity of downtown courthouses.
This towering structure is poised to replace a significantly smaller jail that has occupied the site since the 1980s. However, the ambitious construction timeline has been notably derailed, partly due to the sustained resistance posed by a diverse alliance, which comprises prison abolitionists, local landlords, and, intriguingly, Eric Adams himself. Notably, Adams initially vowed to oppose the new penitentiary during his mayoral campaign. This formidable coalition contends that the imposing edifice will not only mar the cityscape but also potentially undermine the well-being of some of New York's most susceptible immigrants. Furthermore, the question of fiscal prudence emerges, as dissenters ponder whether the multibillion-dollar expenditure might be better allocated elsewhere.
Adams subsequently reversed his stance upon taking office, a pivot that paved the way for the commencement of construction efforts. As the symphony of lunchtime dialogues resonates through Pasteur Grill and Noodles, the percussive cadence of demolition punctuates the air - a prelude to a potentially decade-spanning odyssey. In the face of this reality, Chung pragmatically concedes, "So I suppose I'll have to endure this, or perhaps retire prematurely."
How did the metropolis of New York become resolute in erecting a contentious carceral behemoth at the epicenter of its downtown core? Does this endeavor, as its critics assert, epitomize an unsightly emblem of mass incarceration? Alternatively, might it, as the proponents maintain, symbolize a city gradually, yet unswervingly, mending its deeply ingrained criminal justice shortcomings? Could a superior alternative still lie beyond the horizon?
This saga traces its origins to Rikers Island, an expanse of 413 acres nestled within the East River's embrace - a stone's throw away from the bustling runways of LaGuardia airport. This site bears the indelible mark of housing one of the nation's most harrowing penal institutions. Despite a staggering 85% of Rikers inmates awaiting trial and lacking convictions, the average detainee languishes within these confines for an extended period nearing four months - a stark contrast to the national norm. Alarmingly, numerous individuals find themselves incarcerated for years or meet their demise within these walls.
The current year, 2023, has already witnessed seven inmate fatalities, contributing to a somber tally of 26 deaths since Adams took office. This grim statistic has prompted federal prosecutors to dub it a "collective failure with deep roots." Investigations have unearthed deteriorating structures, unhygienic conditions, and a systemic pattern of abuse inflicted upon inmates by Rikers guards. A federal judge has even wielded the prospect of federal intervention, should the city fail to bring an end to the prevailing turmoil.
There exists scant debate, even within the confines of Chinatown, regarding the necessity of Rikers' closure. The true discord lies in charting the course beyond its demise.
Championing the cause of "borough-based jails" is Dana Kaplan, a fervent advocate for prison reform. In 2018, Kaplan ascended to the role of deputy director in Mayor Bill de Blasio's office of criminal justice, where she played an instrumental role in conceptualizing the ambitious proposal. Presently, she holds the position of senior adviser within the city's independent commission for criminal justice reform. Elaborating on the vision, she articulates, "This moment is a unique opportunity to reshape the city's criminal justice framework into something that embodies greater humanity."
Kaplan firmly emphasizes that the objective transcends mere relocation of detainees; rather, it entails an intricate redesign aimed at minimizing time spent in pre-trial detention. She stresses, "Detaining individuals on Rikers Island for years prior to trial serves no meaningful purpose." Central to this mission is the strategic placement of jails in closer proximity to courts, such as the criminal courthouse in Chinatown, thereby eschewing the current practice involving early-morning awakenings, bus rides, traffic skirmishes, and often missed court appearances characteristic of Rikers Island.
Within the precincts of Chinatown, the towering jail is slated to supplant an existing 15-floor, brutalist-style detention center known as "the Tombs." Reverberating through the revamped structure is an equivalent bed count, yet replete with novel amenities for improved quality of life. Offerings encompass recreational centers, health clinics, and visitation areas boasting children's playrooms - enhancements derived from the inputs of residents, families, and staff garnered through "extensive hours" of focus group consultations, Kaplan notes. She posits, "The experience for incarcerated individuals, as well as staff, will undergo a fundamental transformation."
Kaplan's assertion that a taller edifice is necessitated stems from the frank realization that the incumbent space allocation by the department of corrections was inadequate to accommodate these upgraded features. Earlier, New York City had pondered an alternative blueprint from the non-profit design group Van Alen, suggesting a network of "justice hubs" to replace Rikers. This model envisaged street-level amenities shared with the local populace, thereby mitigating the stigma associated with jails. Ultimately, the city eschewed this approach in favor of on-site services, with Kaplan justifying, "There is a genuine value in having [these services] on-site."
However, the residents of Chinatown remain unconvinced. A prevailing source of unease emanates from the conspicuous lack of visual representation of the impending jail. Remarkably, not even city officials, Kaplan, or Eric Adams possess a concrete visual conception of the structure. This peculiarity derives from the "design-build" process underpinning its construction. In this paradigm, a singular firm is entrusted with both design and construction, yet the city has yet to secure a developer for this ambitious endeavor, even as the demolition of the existing jail progresses.
Jan Lee, a local landlord and founder of Neighbors United Below Canal Street, a group actively opposing the jail, aptly likens this process to "building a bridge as you're crossing it." Hinging on the parameters of the jail's approved zoning permit, Lee envisions a colossal edifice spanning two to three city blocks and towering to a stature akin to the Statue of Liberty - a monument that stands at 305 feet. He dubs this impending structure the potential beacon of Chinatown, accentuating, "This jail is set to be omnipresent in Chinatown's vista." Coupled with the proximate criminal court and another federal prison a short distance away, Lee predicts the coalescing structures could earn the neighborhood the moniker "Jail Town."
Anticipating the architectural anomaly, Kerri Culhane, an adept architectural historian of Chinatown's buildings, prognosticates an incongruent presence - a structure "grossly out of scale" and capable of casting its ominous shadow over the Manhattan Bridge. This prognostication solidifies its role as the paramount "defining architectural feature of the area."
However, the residents of Chinatown harbor concerns beyond aesthetics. Foremost among these is the plight of an already beleaguered neighborhood grappling with its own trials. Being at the forefront of the pandemic's onslaught, Chinatown bore a disproportionate brunt compared to its more affluent Manhattan counterparts. Further compounded by a surge in anti-Asian violence, the neighborhood witnessed an exodus of Asian residents, a migration set in motion since the aftermath of 9/11. The attacks on the nearby Twin Towers sent shockwaves through Chinatown, quelling its garment industry and rendering thousands homeless. The agony intensified with Hurricane Sandy, disrupting power to the neighborhood for extended durations. In the wake of each crisis, authorities' aid fell woefully short.
Presently, local businesses languish, reeling from diminished foot traffic. Echoing this sentiment, Chung of Pasteur Grill and Noodles notes the stark emptiness post-6 or 7 pm. As the construction machinery roars to life in the backdrop, Chung's apprehensions burgeon, his enterprise hanging in the balance.
The plight transcends the metaphorical - the edifices lining the jail's path, including Chung's eatery, consist of centuries-old brick, mortar, and wood structures. Jan Lee accentuates the vulnerability, pointing to these structures' non-reinforced, shallow foundations. He further notes the latent challenges of constructing the new tower above a former pond and toxic waste repository, necessitating dewatering prior to construction - a process that Lee fears might imperil the foundations of surrounding tenements. The disconcerting implication being, "Potentially, hundreds of families may require immediate evacuation."
In tandem, concerns mount for residents of a neighboring senior center, housing many who have entered their ninth decade. Since the commencement of demolition, respiratory issues have surfaced, accompanied by watery eyes and the debilitating effects of relentless noise. This is an ordeal that transcends mere hypotheticals - a reality that has taken root, even before the new jail has commenced construction.
Last April bore witness to ten Chinatown residents, including Jan Lee and Victoria Lee, arrested in a demonstration seeking to thwart the entry of construction vehicles. Victoria Lee, a district leader within the local Democratic party, bemoans the sight of cranes arriving, describing it as "heartbreaking." For her, the protest emerged as a last resort, a desperate bid to challenge a city seemingly resolute in bulldozing through their community. She highlights the administration's refusal to consider "adaptive reuse" as a viable alternative - an avenue that advocates the renovation of the existing jail as a more expedient, cost-effective, and efficacious option.
In direct contrast, the city remains committed to realizing the towering jail. A spokesperson for Adams contends that the administration has actively engaged with community stakeholders and elected officials over a substantial span, even halting work twice to evaluate alternative propositions. Their determination stems from a thorough evaluation by experts and engineers, culminating in the conclusion that their blueprint is swifter, fiscally prudent, and minimally disruptive to the community.
Christopher Marte, a progressive city councilman representing the region, perceives the delays as an opening. He envisions a scenario wherein financial constraints impede the city's ability to break ground on Chinatown's towering jail, estimated to demand more than $2 billion. In his words, "They may eventually reach a point where constructing the grandest jail becomes untenable. They could then potentially consider our proposal - the adaptive reuse of the existing space." For Marte, this saga is far from concluded.
For other activists, an even loftier alternative looms: channeling the proposed funds into communities, a preemptive move that could avert numerous incarcerations. Woods Ervin of the prison abolitionist group Critical Resistance advocates redirecting resources toward community-based services, ensuring fewer individuals find themselves incarcerated. He cogently questions the paradigm wherein incarceration serves as a conduit to accessing services that communities ought to be adequately equipped with in the first place. Ervin's contention is that mental health care is the need of the hour, and fostering such resources in communities would effectively mitigate the need for imprisonment.
In its decision to centralize these services within jails, New York City seems to have conceded, effectively forsaking its citizens, as per Jan Lee's discernment. He underscores the implicit message: "We are offering assistance, but only within the realm where we know you will eventually end up - that is, within jail."
Faced with the status quo, the residents of Chinatown appear to have yielded. In a recent town hall graced by Adams, Jan Lee emerged as the sole resident to voice concerns about the looming jail. However, his appeal did not seek the jail's cessation; rather, he entreated for a stake in the design process, emphasizing proportionality, scale, and minimal impact on the community. Adams assented, acknowledging that the jail was not his brainchild, and stressing the urgency of rectifying a fractured city. However, he alluded to a dire outcome should the jail's construction be impeded, envisioning a scenario where those implicated in violent crimes could be released back into the streets due to constrained capacity.
With no voices of opposition within earshot, the prospect of the world's tallest jail inches closer to realization. The struggle may have reached its final crescendo, and for the community of Chinatown, it's now a question of adapting to the inevitable. Expressing this sentiment with a touch of hope, Chung, the owner of Pasteur Grill and Noodles, intones, "I hope they hasten the construction process, so normalcy can be restored sooner rather than later."
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