A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

by Betty Smith

Old people are not unhappy. They don’t long for the things we want. They just want to be warm and have soft food to eat and remember things with each other. Stop being so foolish. If there’s one thing certain, it’s that we all have to get old someday.

She had borne a child but two hours ago. She was so weak that she couldn’t lift her head an inch from the pillow, yet it was she who comforted him and told him not to worry, that she would take care of him.

Everything struggles to live. Look at that tree growing up there out of that grating. It gets no sun, and water only when it rains. It’s growing out of sour earth. And it’s strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong. My children will be strong that way.”

A person who pulls himself up from a low environment via the bootstrap route has two choices. Having risen above his environment, he can forget it; or, he can rise above it and never forget it and keep compassion and understanding in his heart for those he has left behind him in the cruel upclimb.

She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood.

“Maybe,” thought Francie, “she doesn’t love me as much as she loves Neeley. But she needs me more than she needs him and I guess being needed is almost as good as being loved. Maybe better.”

Everything, decided Francie after that first lecture, was vibrant with life and there was no death in chemistry. She was puzzled as to why learned people didn’t adopt chemistry as a religion.

“Forward? Nonsense! Send the card if you feel like it. I hate all those flirty-birty games that women make up. Life’s too short. If you ever find a man you love, don’t waste time hanging your head and simpering. Go right up to him and say, ‘I love you. How about getting married?’

“New York! I’ve always wanted to see it and now I’ve seen it. It’s true what they say—it’s the most wonderful city in the world.” “Brooklyn’s better.” “It hasn’t got skyscrapers like New York, has it?” “No. But there’s a feeling about it—Oh, I can’t explain it. You’ve got to live in Brooklyn to know.”

“People always think that happiness is a faraway thing,” thought Francie, “something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains—a cup of strong hot coffee when you’re blue; for a man, a cigarette for contentment; a book to read when you’re alone—just to be with someone you love. Those things make happiness.”