B Train to Brighton
An Introduction and Essay from "Little Odessa, A Brighton Beach Anthology"
This special stack entry shares the introductory text and an essay from my recently published artist book and research project: Little Odessa, A Brighton Beach Anthology.
*Although the Anthology is unavailable for purchase, it will be free and accessible to the public in the coming months at the collections of the Center for Brooklyn History, The New York Historical, the Thomas J. Watson Library at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Library of Congress.
Thank you.
Introduction
Brighton Beach was nicknamed “Little Odessa” following a significant migration of Soviet Jews in the 1970s, many of whom arrived from Ukraine’s Black Sea port. Coincidentally, many immigrants who had fled a Russified Eastern Europe or Central Asia found themselves settling within Russian-speaking communities in the United States—an oxymoron of sorts—yet one that undeniably granted them liberties unimaginable under ironclad rule. Post-Soviets arriving after the collapse of the USSR were free to reclaim religions, languages, and traditions after decades of suppression.
Over the course of this mass migration, new populations of “hyphenated” Americans emerged in cities such as Los Angeles, Milwaukee, Portland, and Philadelphia, to name a few. As these communities took root, language became a defining feature of their identity. The predominant use of the Russian language across commercial, organizational, and educational sectors in Brighton Beach was extensively studied by Oksana Laleko and Yana Miroshnychenko in 2022, offering insight into the impact of a shared language within this multicultural immigrant community.
Today, Brighton Beach remains the largest integrated community of Russian speakers in the U.S., making it a critical site for researchers studying the evolution of heritage languages among first- and second-generation émigrés. However, the Russian language is not the neighborhood's sole characteristic; its legacy is shaped by intertwined communities of Ukrainian, Uzbek, Kazakh, Armenian, and Georgian immigrants seeking a future that transcends the confines of the USSR.
This visual anthology seeks to preserve the cultural and geographic imprints of this kaleidoscopic neighborhood. Brighton Beach continues to be shaped by new generations of residents, independent news publications, and restaurants. On more than one occasion, it has also served as a cinematic backdrop for notable filmmakers.
This year-long research effort presented many unexpected hurdles. It was particularly striking to learn how few institutional efforts have been made to preserve materials from this community, with most archival responsibilities falling to cultural centers or personal collections. While some artifacts have been generously contributed to historical library collections, the absence of locally printed ephemera, documentation of the built environment, and images of this immigrant community still remain noticeable. I hope this anthology will inspire a continued effort to preserve, document, and engage with the evolving history of this remarkable place.
B Train to Brighton
Because I live at the last stop, I find myself involuntarily noting who gets on and off the train. Some passengers board for a brief ride—while others for a far longer pilgrimage, suggested by the softening of their shoulders against the seatbacks. I read Georges Perec’s Species of Spaces and Other Pieces, sometime after completing an artist residency in rural Connecticut a few years ago. There was an especially memorable chapter in the book about walking: how the stroll, rhythm, or clacking of a heel—met at the edge of a tiled floor—can reveal a great deal about one’s familiarity with a place.
Following my uprooting from school, I observed the city in total stillness for a period of three months.
I would leave my apartment to attend exhibition openings or to stroll through museums and parks, but I would only ever speak to one or two people at most in a day. On some occasions, I would go through an entire day without speaking a single word aloud. The soft croak of my voice, for a brief moment, felt unidentifiable and surprising. It wasn’t that I had nothing meaningful to relay about what I had left behind in moving (or that I was a little depressed), but rather that the stories incidentally shared through others’ postures, hurried walks, or darting eyes felt far more important to learn from and escape into. In the subsequent months, I began closely observing New York’s post-Soviet community while drafting a project proposal for a visual arts grant (the product being what you now hold in your hands).
One October day, a craving for a heaping bowl of Ukrainian borscht pulled me out of my apartment’s slumber. Hate to disappoint any “Veselka-for-lifers,” but to me, their borscht is only just okay. Conveniently (or inconveniently depending on where in Uptown you are), the commute from Upper Manhattan to Brighton Beach allows for an easy B transfer. I don’t mind that the lulling ride drags to the opposite end of the line. The clunky Cyrillic typefaces and bustling street bazaars were an unshakable comfort, something I yearned to step back into.
After traveling across Manhattan so many times over the last year, I’ve become better at guessing who on the train is heading to Brighton Beach. Most twenty-somethings get off before Newkirk Plaza. There are a few families and professionals aboard for the stops thereafter, but by the time you pass Kings Highway, the remaining commuters are often retirees and Brighton natives.
During the summer, the passengers are a mixed bag, but in every other season, you’ll notice the language in the train car change, albeit spoken in a low hum. The train rides to Brighton have become a better substitute for my innocuous ‘periods of silence’. The gentle rocking of the train car and the greenery flashing into sight beyond the glass transport me elsewhere: to a place among the swirling jewels of a magenta-red whirlpool and its soft, dancing plumes—
where splayed-out sunbathers and riddled grandfathers smile at me in the same language.