Brooklyn Made Me

Rooted in Brooklyn

When I think about what it means to be rooted, my heart always goes back to Brooklyn. I was born and raised here, a Caribbean kid with two Jamaican parents who came to New York as teenagers, chasing new beginnings but carrying their culture with them. My very first soundtrack was reggae; it was in the house, in the car, everywhere. But my parents were teenagers of the disco and R&B; era too, so as a late-70s baby I grew up with a mix: Donna Summer, The Commodores, Luther. By the 80s, I was singing at the top of my lungs to New Edition, convinced Michael Jackson was going to be my husband one day. To be honest, music was more than background noise—it told the story of my childhood. As I got older, calypso and soca joined the playlist,

circa 1981

and by high school, Flatbush was like one big Caribbean block party. Every island was represented: Trinidad, Barbados, Haiti, Guyana, Puerto Rico, Panama, you name it. It shaped not just what I listened to, but how I listened. And then there was the food, the dress, the swag—the whole Brooklyn vibe. That’s what I fell in love with. Around here, the streets were alive: soca and dancehall bumping from open windows, gospel flowing out of churches on Sunday mornings, hip-hop setting the beat of everyday life. Food was never just food—it was family, it was culture, it was survival.

Rooted in Community

But Brooklyn has always been more than just a backdrop for me—it’s been a teacher. In Brooklyn, I’ve always felt community, and that sense of belonging showed up in different ways depending on where I was. I went to two private schools: one predominantly White, the other predominantly Black. Both taught me something valuable. At my predominantly White school, I noticed that privilege looked different. Some kids didn’t have door-to-door school bus pick-up like I did, and their days were shaped within cement playgrounds inside gated yards rather than running through big parks. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but now, as a mother, I make it a point to take my children to big parks so they can feel the grass under their toes or dig their hands in the sand. Then, at my predominantly Black school, I learned something equally important: how rich my culture is, the beauty in checking in with “folks,” and the power of loving the skin I’m in. That environment affirmed me in ways my other friends couldn’t understand. It also shaped how I raise my sons, who are all different shades—I make sure they know that their skin is radiant and worthy. Those two experiences taught me balance: to see what people have, what they’re missing, and to fight for what would make life just a little bit easier. It’s that mix—those Brooklyn contrasts—that shaped how I show up now in public health, in community work, and through Brooklyn WATE.

Rooted in Resilience

During my years of service in emergency medical services right here in Brooklyn, I saw disparities up close. Some communities had immediate access to care and resources, while others were left waiting—underserved, overlooked, and often forgotten. Those moments showed me that community isn’t an abstract idea; it’s lived. It’s the hands that catch us when we fall. It’s the voices that remind us we matter, even when the world outside says otherwise. Being rooted in Brooklyn means I carry those lessons wherever I go, and they are the foundation of Brooklyn WATE.

Brooklyn as a Mirror of Resilience

Brooklyn isn’t just where I’m from; it’s a reflection of the larger struggles and triumphs of both Black and immigrant communities in America. I carry both sides of that story. As the daughter of Caribbean parents, I grew up immersed in the traditions, music, and resilience of West Indian culture. But I am also Black American, and I’ve experienced the inequities and social racism that Black people native to this country face—inequities that show up in housing, education, health care, and even within our own communities. Living at that intersection taught me that our struggles are connected, and so are our strengths. The U.S. Census Bureau calls Brooklyn one of the most diverse counties in the nation, with large Black and Caribbean populations that have shaped everything from the arts to politics. We carry histories of migration, survival, and innovation that continue to shape the borough’s identity. Sociologist Mary C. Waters, in her work on Caribbean immigrants in New York, describes how West Indian families pursued American dreams while holding onto cultural traditions that grounded them. That has always resonated with me, because in Brooklyn, culture isn’t just preserved, it is reimagined. Every block holds a story of resilience, whether it is families building businesses from scratch, churches organizing against injustice, or young people carving out space in a world that doesn’t always see them. The Urban League of New York has documented how Black Brooklyn has been both a site of systemic inequities and of radical organizing to change those systems. And we know that when our communities come together, we don’t just survive, we rise.

Why Community Matters

All these academic scholars have been telling us for years what we already knew in our bones: belonging matters. McMillan and Chavis, in their classic Journal of Community Psychology article, defined a “sense of community” as a feeling that members matter to one another and that their needs will be met by their commitment to be together. That sense of community, they found, is linked to mental well-being, resilience, and the ability to thrive. Public health research echoes the same truth. The CDC’s work on social determinants of health shows that strong community ties reduce stress, improve health outcomes, and create protective factors against systemic inequities. And organizations like the Black Women’s Health Imperative remind us that for Black women in particular, community is not optional—it is essential. It is the difference between isolation and empowerment, between being silenced and being heard.

Juneteenth Open Closet '25

Yet even with researched evidence, not everyone feels the same urgency to create equal footing. We’ve seen agencies dismantled that once worked hard to bring health information to all people. We’re living in a time where access to equitable information is not guaranteed, and in some cases, may be limited or even removed. That is why organizations like Brooklyn WATE must be supported and resourced. We are the intermediate place where communities can gain valuable information, connection, and care. That is the heartbeat of Brooklyn WATE. When we run initiatives like Open Closet, Black Women Cook, or Black Women Grow, we are not just offering services—we are creating community. We are weaving together networks of care that remind people: you are seen, you are valued, you belong.

Rising Together

Being rooted in Brooklyn has taught me that real change doesn’t happen from the top down. It starts in living rooms, at kitchen tables, in church basements, and on stoops. It starts with women who decide that enough is enough and who roll up their sleeves to make sure the next generation has better. My own journey—from a Brooklyn girl to a public health professional to leading Brooklyn WATE—is proof of what community makes possible. I didn’t get here alone. Every step was shaped by the people and places that held me up when I needed it most. There would be no Brooklyn WATE without the support of many others, and I take pride in understanding and celebrating the power of community and the power of support. We need both to be effective. We need both to continue to thrive. That’s why community matters: because none of us rise by ourselves. We rise when we are rooted together.

So, as you read this, I invite you to think about your own roots.

Where did you grow?

Who shaped you?

And how can you pour back into the soil that once nourished you?

Because when we stay rooted, we rise higher than we ever could alone.

References

- U.S. Census Bureau. QuickFacts: Brooklyn, NY (2020).

- Waters, M. C. (1999). Black Identities: West Indian Immigrant Dreams and American Realities.

Harvard University Press.

- McMillan, D. W., & Chavis, D. M. (1986). Sense of community: A definition and theory. Journal of Community Psychology, 14(1), 6–23.

- CDC. Social Determinants of Health.

- Black Women’s Health Imperative. Health Equity Reports.

- Urban League of New York. The State of Black New York Reports.

Malene Brissett is a wife, mother, and advocate for equity who writes as her own form of therapy. She holds a Master’s degree in Public Health and a Bachelor of Science in Psychology, blending research with storytelling to spark conversations that matter. She prides herself on being with the women, for the women—bringing equity and understanding to underserved communities.