WATERSIDE PLAZA
A Memoire Archive #3
I grew up on the East River at 23rd Street and the FDR Drive in a giant housing complex called Waterside Plaza. Four brown brutalist towers rose above the river on what was essentially an artificial extension of Manhattan, a modernist experiment built atop a platform of landfill projecting into the East River. To me, it was simply home.
We lived on the 30th floor in a spacious three-bedroom apartment. There were five children, two parents, two bathrooms, a large dining room, and windows that seemed to contain the entire city. Looking south, I could see the Twin Towers. Looking north, I could see the Queensboro Bridge, Long Island City, and the glowing Pepsi-Cola sign across the river. At night, especially in summer, we slept with the windows open. The sound of the FDR Drive floated upward and became a mechanical lullaby.
Growing up thirty stories above Manhattan gave me a permanent fear of heights. When Eric Clapton’s young son tragically fell from a Manhattan apartment window (1991), it terrified me. We were already careful around the windows, but after that story every lock and latch seemed charged with danger.
