The Future Has a Price

This letter is part of Nina's epistolary blog 'Nina's Diary', where she shares letters with her inner circle of close girlfriends. Nina and her friends overthink films, books, and heritage sites to make sense of life.

This is a letter written by Billie to Nina

New York, March 12, 1958

It seems you can't get that head of yours to relax even for a split second without questioning the world around you. Still, I was quite relieved to recognize your handwriting on the back of both envelopes when the postman handed them to me yesterday.

Imagine my surprise when not one, but three photographs dropped out from between your pages. I've placed the Citroën photographs right alongside the car collection my dad spent over a decade building, up to the day he passed away. Oh Nina, you made me weep, and I can hardly forgive you for that.

I'm so glad you've found a place to settle, and Lilly sounds lovely—though I do hope she isn't a snorer. You've always been such a light sleeper, or if I'm being completely honest, a restless one. It may take a few weeks to get used to sharing your space with someone else, but I know you'll feel right at home soon enough.

On the day you flew to Paris, Mama learned that Mrs. Whitmore, a former neighbor of ours in Addisleigh Park, was looking for a Black woman to give her five-year-old daughter, Caroline, piano lessons.

Mama insisted I pay a visit to Mrs. Whitmore and offer my services. What Mama doesn't know—or rather, is willingly turning a blind eye to—is that both Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore have quite a reputation in the neighborhood. She, like a rat sniffing through trash, is always hunting for the next rumor to spread like wildfire. As for Mr. Whitmore, his lazy eye never prevented him from ogling young girls, myself included back when we lived two blocks away from their house.

I resisted at first, but she swiftly shut down our heated exchange by reminding me of our financial woes: "Beggars can't be choosers."

What was I supposed to say to that?

So, I'm reluctantly going to visit Mrs. Whitmore on Monday. But if I do take the job, at least I'll get to sit at a piano again. I haven't touched the keys in months... and that brings me to your fascinating story about Charles Garnier. When my best friend compares a master architect's early struggles to my own humble life, I suppose it deserves my full attention. I might even head down to the public library to read up on him.

Now, I am not sure if you expect an answer to your question about the heavy price some pay in the name of progress, but I'll give you my perspective anyway. Nina, when you stand before the Opéra Garnier, don't you think such an architectural marvel demanded its own share of sacrifice? How many nameless stonemasons, plasterers, and ironworkers broke their backs, went underpaid, or even lost their lives just so the Opéra could become one of the great landmarks of Paris?

Do you remember how often you and I stood in awe before our own architectural wonders right here in New York? The Empire State, the Chrysler, the Rockefeller. They helped put New York on the world map and forged its cultural identity. Don't you think greatness is inherently bound to risk, courage, and sacrifice? Where you see injustice and workers left behind, I see the price we've always paid to build the future. Could progress happen differently? Maybe.

Writing this to you brought a memory back. I’ve kept two newspaper clippings pinned inside my journal for years: a 1932 photograph of the Chrysler Building*, and beside it, the famous picture of the ironworkers eating lunch on a steel beam high above Rockefeller Center*. Maybe it was my own way of paying homage to the thousands of immigrant ironworkers who built New York with their bare hands. I know the photograph was arranged for publicity but arranged doesn't mean fake. Those men were still sitting hundreds of feet above the street, without a safety rope in sight. In my mind, keeping those two pictures together was an attempt to strike a fair balance: admire the masterpiece while acknowledging the human cost behind it.

Anyway, it's getting late and I ought to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I must figure out what on earth to wear for this interview with Mrs. Whitmore. I'm leaning toward something buttoned up straight to my neck. The less there is for Mr. Whitmore's lazy eye to wander over, the better. It's ridiculous the lengths we have to go to just to get by, isn't it?

Take good care of yourself in Paris,

Write back soon,

Billie

P.S. I’m enclosing those two newspaper clippings with this letter so you can see them for yourself. Treat them gently.

💌 Read Millie's Letter to Nina: A Streetcar Named Desire - Blanche vs Stanley

* These two photographs are part of Billie's Vintage Paris Collection:12 historical snapshots printed on real Instax Square film.