The entrepreneurial history of Brady Street is beautiful. Starting these small bar, shops, and restaurants, growing them into communal staples, reimagining them for future generations, and repurposing building shells that house souls of courage, community, and “classy” capitalism, is absolutely the narrative I was looking for when deciding to see the film. However, the economic sustainability of the area is threaded with Black contributers that were never noted.
In the hysteria of white flight, those who had established roots on Brady Street fled as an insurgence of melanated faces appeared in Milwaukee during the Great Migration. These property owners [some of whose family had been squatters in previous years, but I won't hold you on that], while domesticating suburbia, had tenants renting their flats, lofts, and storefronts. And guess what those payments did? It allowed for the property tax and mortgages to be paid, keeping the area afloat, and tanneries to be manned [until that was no longer a viable practice in the city proper]. And guess what else, many of those tenants were BLACK.
“My father was there”, Vedale commented after the film concluded. “Pulaski Park, Peter Sciortino, that neighborhood bar right on the corner, where he would linger sometimes. . . We know Brady, but this is not our Brady, but we still honor it. The sidewalk art by Pamela Scesniak is iconic, and as an artist, I value that labor. Its deterioration and green application look like the patina of ancient ruins, meant to document a rich history and culture that is still alive today. We know this story. We don't have to watch a documentary to get that truth. Now, let's go to Zaffiro's. I have a sudden craving for pizza.”
That’s when it hit me, the missing piece of the Brady Street narrative did not remove the history from existence. It just showcases a limiting perspective that can’t be found in a history book, news clippings, or archives. It’s anecdotal and personal, passed through breaking bread or toasting spirits, remembered in practice with purpose. Walking the ground, feeling the cement under your feet, leaning against a facade as you people watch the neighborhood and recollect.
A flash of a photo of my daughter walking down Brady Street with her class on their daily adventure confirmed it all.
The legacy of Brady Street continues.
Lexi for /CW