CHAPTER 5
VANDERVEER
“And the most dangerous place on earth
—is where you’re safe.”
— Don Winslow
Vanderveer wasn’t just a place—it was an atmosphere. It had its own rhythm, its own laws, and a specific kind of silence—the kind that drops right before the swing of a fist or the pop of a gun. We called it “Veer” for short. And in hindsight, I should’ve veered away from it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It stood too tall. Loomed too large. There was something in its gravity that wouldn’t let me go.
Vanderveer was a fortress of six-story buildings, spread across multiple blocks like a private city in the middle of Brooklyn. It wasn’t part of NYCHA like the rest of the projects—it was privately owned. Built in 1949, it originally housed white Jewish families in its 2,400 apartments. But by the 1960s, the complexion of the place had changed. West Indians flooded in—Jamaicans, Trinidadians, Haitians, Guyanese—along with some Puerto Ricans, forming a new Caribbean stronghold in the heart of Flatbush.
By 1974, when my mother moved us several blocks away, I found myself gravitating toward this compound of concrete and tension. Even though the neighborhood still had some integration, there were invisible borders—lines you didn’t cross if your skin was too dark or your accent too thick. My mother never sat me down to explain the rules of race in America. That wasn’t the Haitian way. But I heard the whispers. I heard the warnings. I saw the way people moved cautiously past the Junction, at Flatbush and Nostrand Avenue. I learned to take note of who stared too long and which streets felt wrong under my feet.
I made friends pretty fast, and most of the guys who befriended me were West Indian. We had a few things in common: we dressed the same, with dress shoes, button-up shirts, and high-water suit pants. Our shirts were always tucked in, and we spoke with accents that colored every sentence. We played soccer while others preferred American football. I could look at a kid’s dress code and know he had a West Indian parent. The only thing that set me apart from my Caribbean comrades was my language. I spoke Creole, and unless they were Haitian, nobody understood it. Nobody understood the frustration either. So even among the few who accepted me, I still felt too different to be cool.
What started as a shortcut to school became a second home.
Vanderveer was a world unto itself. The Rastas ran it, standing posted outside the buildings near the schoolyard, selling treys and nickels—three- and five-dollar bags of weed. The marijuana smoke mixed with the smell of fried food and asphalt in the summer. Me and my friends used to hoop in that same schoolyard during our lunch break, sweating and jawing beneath their watchful eyes.
There were always lookouts—posted on rooftops, pressed in stairwells, eyes peeled for enemies or “the beast.” Cops were the beasts. The system wore uniforms, and in Veer, you didn’t run to it—you ran from it.
To outsiders, Vanderveer was a war zone. To me, it was a classroom. And it taught fast. I was still a kid, barely in my teens, but I watched closely. Learned quickly. In a place like this, how you stood mattered. Your walk. Your stare. Your silence. If you moved timid, you were hunted. Blood in the water. Sharks all around you.
I stayed close to those who moved with quiet power—not the loudmouths, but the ones with heavy reputations and light footsteps. The ones with bruises under their shirts and stories behind their eyes. These were the kids who didn’t have to say much. Others did the talking for them.
Two names floated through the air in that era: Vinny Vance and Cadien.
Vinny was American—small, wiry, but mean as they come. He already had a big brother named Andre, so I understood the dynamic. He had protection. Cadien, on the other hand, was Jamaican. He had a black belt in karate, and he made sure everyone knew it. A roundhouse kick followed by a right cross was his signature. He didn’t mind showing off. And the Jamaicans loved him—he had heart, and in Veer, that was currency.
But I hated him. He’d slapped me with a tree branch once on my way home from school for no reason. I ran home, humiliated, and told Kesner. Days later, as we walked home again, I spotted him.
“There he go right there,” I told my brother.
Kesner didn’t hesitate. He walked straight up to Cadien, grabbed him, pointed at me, and said,
“You see him? Don’t ever put your hands on him again.”
Cadien looked confused—like he had no memory of even touching me. But the message landed. Kesner wasn’t alone. He had four tough-looking Americans with him. This wasn’t going to be a Jim Kelly martial arts moment for Cadien. This was real Brooklyn. And Cadien understood that. Even with his black belt, he apologized and backed off.
From then on, Cadien would see me around and just stare. His silence was sharp. I wanted to take karate classes so bad, just to prepare in case he changed his mind one day. A showdown of who’s flying kick was more superb. I’d usually daydream of nonsensical things like that when I was afraid.
Vinny Vance was more volatile. Already carrying a gun by his early teens. A year after the Cadien incident, Vinny and Kesner ended up in a fistfight—Vinny didn’t do well. But it was the beginning of something darker.
As they got older, Vinny and Cadien became inseparable. And I became Kesner’s little brother—the one who was off-limits. Vinny made it known he didn’t like me. Didn’t respect me.
But he didn’t touch me. Not then.
There were layers to the Veer crew.
There was Vinny, Cadien, and the street kids—dangerous, wild, quick to move.
And then there were the big boys.
The ones you didn’t look in the eye.
The Jamaicans. The UNTOUCHABLES.
That was the paradox—you felt powerful in Vanderveer, like you belonged to something big. Like the streets wrapped around you and whispered your name. Just knowing the members was power.
But that’s when it got dangerous.
Because the moment you felt safe,
was the moment you let your guard down.
And in Veer, that’s when you got tested.
CHAPTER 5
VANDERVEER
“And the most dangerous place on earth
—is where you’re safe.”
— Don Winslow
Vanderveer wasn’t just a place—it was an atmosphere. It had its own rhythm, its own laws, and a specific kind of silence—the kind that drops right before the swing of a fist or the pop of a gun. We called it “Veer” for short. And in hindsight, I should’ve veered away from it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It stood too tall. Loomed too large. There was something in its gravity that wouldn’t let me go.
Vanderveer was a fortress of six-story buildings, spread across multiple blocks like a private city in the middle of Brooklyn. It wasn’t part of NYCHA like the rest of the projects—it was privately owned. Built in 1949, it originally housed white Jewish families in its 2,400 apartments. But by the 1960s, the complexion of the place had changed. West Indians flooded in—Jamaicans, Trinidadians, Haitians, Guyanese—along with some Puerto Ricans, forming a new Caribbean stronghold in the heart of Flatbush.
By 1974, when my mother moved us several blocks away, I found myself gravitating toward this compound of concrete and tension. Even though the neighborhood still had some integration, there were invisible borders—lines you didn’t cross if your skin was too dark or your accent too thick. My mother never sat me down to explain the rules of race in America. That wasn’t the Haitian way. But I heard the whispers. I heard the warnings. I saw the way people moved cautiously past the Junction, at Flatbush and Nostrand Avenue. I learned to take note of who stared too long and which streets felt wrong under my feet.
I made friends pretty fast, and most of the guys who befriended me were West Indian. We had a few things in common: we dressed the same, with dress shoes, button-up shirts, and high-water suit pants. Our shirts were always tucked in, and we spoke with accents that colored every sentence. We played soccer while others preferred American football. I could look at a kid’s dress code and know he had a West Indian parent. The only thing that set me apart from my Caribbean comrades was my language. I spoke Creole, and unless they were Haitian, nobody understood it. Nobody understood the frustration either. So even among the few who accepted me, I still felt too different to be cool.
What started as a shortcut to school became a second home.
Vanderveer was a world unto itself. The Rastas ran it, standing posted outside the buildings near the schoolyard, selling treys and nickels—three- and five-dollar bags of weed. The marijuana smoke mixed with the smell of fried food and asphalt in the summer. Me and my friends used to hoop in that same schoolyard during our lunch break, sweating and jawing beneath their watchful eyes.
There were always lookouts—posted on rooftops, pressed in stairwells, eyes peeled for enemies or “the beast.” Cops were the beasts. The system wore uniforms, and in Veer, you didn’t run to it—you ran from it.
To outsiders, Vanderveer was a war zone. To me, it was a classroom. And it taught fast. I was still a kid, barely in my teens, but I watched closely. Learned quickly. In a place like this, how you stood mattered. Your walk. Your stare. Your silence. If you moved timid, you were hunted. Blood in the water. Sharks all around you.
I stayed close to those who moved with quiet power—not the loudmouths, but the ones with heavy reputations and light footsteps. The ones with bruises under their shirts and stories behind their eyes. These were the kids who didn’t have to say much. Others did the talking for them.
Two names floated through the air in that era: Vinny Vance and Cadien.
Vinny was American—small, wiry, but mean as they come. He already had a big brother named Andre, so I understood the dynamic. He had protection. Cadien, on the other hand, was Jamaican. He had a black belt in karate, and he made sure everyone knew it. A roundhouse kick followed by a right cross was his signature. He didn’t mind showing off. And the Jamaicans loved him—he had heart, and in Veer, that was currency.
But I hated him. He’d slapped me with a tree branch once on my way home from school for no reason. I ran home, humiliated, and told Kesner. Days later, as we walked home again, I spotted him.
“There he go right there,” I told my brother.
Kesner didn’t hesitate. He walked straight up to Cadien, grabbed him, pointed at me, and said,
“You see him? Don’t ever put your hands on him again.”
Cadien looked confused—like he had no memory of even touching me. But the message landed. Kesner wasn’t alone. He had four tough-looking Americans with him. This wasn’t going to be a Jim Kelly martial arts moment for Cadien. This was real Brooklyn. And Cadien understood that. Even with his black belt, he apologized and backed off.
From then on, Cadien would see me around and just stare. His silence was sharp. I wanted to take karate classes so bad, just to prepare in case he changed his mind one day. A showdown of who’s flying kick was more superb. I’d usually daydream of nonsensical things like that when I was afraid.
Vinny Vance was more volatile. Already carrying a gun by his early teens. A year after the Cadien incident, Vinny and Kesner ended up in a fistfight—Vinny didn’t do well. But it was the beginning of something darker.
As they got older, Vinny and Cadien became inseparable. And I became Kesner’s little brother—the one who was off-limits. Vinny made it known he didn’t like me. Didn’t respect me.
But he didn’t touch me. Not then.
There were layers to the Veer crew.
There was Vinny, Cadien, and the street kids—dangerous, wild, quick to move.
And then there were the big boys.
The ones you didn’t look in the eye.
The Jamaicans. The UNTOUCHABLES.
That was the paradox—you felt powerful in Vanderveer, like you belonged to something big. Like the streets wrapped around you and whispered your name. Just knowing the members was power.
But that’s when it got dangerous.
Because the moment you felt safe,
was the moment you let your guard down.
And in Veer, that’s when you got tested.