Early–Mid 20th Century: The City’s Edge

During the early 1900s, The Hole lay on the fringes of farmland and marsh, surrounded by the developing neighborhoods of East New York, Cypress Hills, and Ozone Park. Its isolation made it a haven for those seeking space outside the city’s rigid order: stable owners, small-scale farmers, and working families who built homes from salvaged materials. Throughout the early 20th century, The Hole developed sporadically, with scattered housing constructed on cheap, flood-prone land.

Many of the early homes were one-story bungalows or converted garages, built without basements or proper foundations to avoid flooding. Lacking sewer connections, residents relied on septic tanks and wells, while roads remained unpaved or prone to collapse. The area’s unpaved streets and lack of drainage infrastructure meant residents often contended with standing water and mud, especially after heavy rain.

By the 1940s and 1950s, as surrounding neighborhoods urbanized with paved streets, brick rowhouses, and public utilities, The Hole stood apart—a pocket of semi-rural life in the middle of the city. Residents raised chickens, repaired cars in front yards, and used wooden planks to cross flooded intersections. The city largely ignored the area in zoning and maintenance plans, leaving it physically and symbolically below the map’s concern.

This neglect created a unique culture of self-reliance and seclusion. For much of the 20th century, The Hole’s residents—many from working-class Black, Italian-American, and later Caribbean families—formed tight community bonds, sharing resources and defending their patch of land from outsiders and developers alike.

Mid–Late 20th Century: Margins and Myths

By the 1950s, as nearby South Ozone Park and Lindenwood developed into stable suburban neighborhoods, The Hole remained suspended between eras—still rural in spirit, yet encircled by urban sprawl. The extension of the Belt Parkway and the growth of Idlewild (JFK) Airport brought noise and proximity to industry, but little in the way of infrastructure improvement. Streets remained unpaved, city water and sewer systems were minimal, and flooding persisted as a defining feature.

In this isolation, legend and lore began to gather. By the 1970s and 1980s, The Hole’s reputation had drifted into the city’s mythology—portrayed alternately as a forgotten “no man’s land,” a hideout for horse trainers and offbeat characters, and, at times, a dumping ground for mob-related crimes. While some of this notoriety was exaggerated by tabloids, it added to the area’s mystique as New York’s “lost neighborhood.”

By this time, The Hole had entered local folklore as one of New York’s strangest—and roughest—neighborhoods. Persistent flooding, abandoned lots, and isolation contributed to its reputation as a lawless backwater. It was here that city workers and journalists occasionally discovered abandoned cars, animal remains, and even mob burial sites, fueling sensational headlines.

The most infamous of these came in 1981, when police uncovered a series of mafia-linked graves—victims of the Gambino crime family, allegedly disposed of in the area’s desolate lots. The Hole’s remote geography, just out of sight of traffic but minutes from major highways, made it an ideal dumping ground during New York’s mob era.

Despite this notoriety, a small but stable community persisted. Longtime residents described the area as quiet and close-knit, if perilous in wet weather. “We’re the forgotten ones,” one resident told reporters in the 1990s, “but it’s home.” The landscape—pocked with reeds, fences, and rusting cars—gave the area an almost rural southern feel, earning it the nickname “the swamp neighborhood.”

Despite hardship, families continued to live there, joined by new arrivals seeking affordable shelter and independence. The community’s resilience—its ability to endure amid neglect—became both its challenge and its badge of honor.