Searching for Whitopia by Rich Benjamin

Searching for Whitopia by Rich Benjamin

Author:Rich Benjamin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Books


♦ 1045 Park Avenue ($2,100,000)

♦ 1050 Park Avenue ($2,795,000)

♦ 1105 Park Avenue ($2,795,000)

♦ 1150 Park Avenue ($2,300,000)

♦ 115 East Eighty-sixth Street ($2,495,000)

♦ 47 East Eighty-seventh Street ($2,500,000)

♦ 47 East Eighty-eighth Street ($2,495,000)

My favorite is 1150 Park Avenue—the apartment’s entire entry foyer is paneled with magnificent built-in bookshelves!

To view these co-ops, I wear what non-Hispanic whites wear to shop for a nice home—jacket, shirt, and jeans. One venture, I’m in ambivalent luxury: a brown herringbone blazer, Rogan jeans, a periwinkle dress shirt (very discreetly monogrammed in small block font, stitched a quarter inch from the hem of my left cuff), and Iramo ankle boots (calfskin, handmade in Italy). Another day out, I’m in apathetic chic: an old, tan lambs wool sweater with elbow patches (the patches are not flourishes, but necessary Band-Aids to this comfy relic); off-white dress shirt (subtle window-pane pattern, also monogrammed discreetly); coffee-colored wool trousers; and red suede loafers (Brooks Brothers, limited supply). When it rains during one of my home-hunting excursions, I make sure to have a simple rain slicker (maroon, nylon, Prada) and a fine three-foot umbrella (wooden neck and handle). And so on. Why share all this detail? Reading those control-group studies where the blacks prove more likely to be rejected from housing than the whites, my internalized prejudice kicks in. Well, did the brotha look right? I wonder. Are they sure there was some racism?

Thus attired, I pass as a credible financial prospect for a “modest” neighborhood co-op. In fact, Beth’s regular, thorough, and specific updates—a barrage of calls and e-mails—demonstrate my value as her customer. (Beth is not exactly desperate for business: She is guiding me on my faux home search in spring 2008, just before the spaff of Wall Street layoffs temporarily sours Manhattan’s luxury co-op market.)

Every co-op listing agent is white. Some are downright frosty—but welcome to Manhattan. Others are rather kind. One insists on calling me “Dr. Benjamin.” “Please don’t call me that,” I say with a pinched smile. “If you drop with a heart attack by the vestibule, there’s nothing I can do. I’m not that kind of doctor. How about Richard?”

While the law prohibits delving into the buyer’s ethnicity, national origin, marital status, occupation, etc., the listing agents make an end run around the rules: “So, where are you from?” “Won’t your wife just love all this closet space for her handbags?” “Would this living room be large enough for all your parties?” (Trick question.) “So, where did you go to high school?” “Where do you summer?” “What exactly is it that you do?” “Your parents must be proud of you. What do they do?” One gray-haired agent coos that I remind her of her son: “So why aren’t you living downtown?” Sincere interest, real estate patter, and delicate, but pointed questions—all gauge whether I’m a good building “match.”

Just before one co-op viewing, I enter the elevator with Beth and a listing agent. A very dark-skinned woman, hovering just above six feet tall, bounds into the elevator, clasping the hand of a little girl.



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