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The tree that grows in Brooklyn isn't really about Brooklyn at all. It's an encapsulation of the experience of the immigrant, with the first generation American-born as astonished observer. And liver. From the eyes of ever-evolving Francie, who writes about it all, writing herself out of nightmarish situations (deaths, hunger, & a sexual deviant that lingers in the hallways) and childhood idylls (trips to the candy store... & feeling validated, loved, cared for). She describes things that are funny & tragic at once; because she survives the story--this is a loose autobiography, infused, no doubt, with the novelist's godly fictions--we end up loving her. &, implicitly, we fall in love with family, childhood, life, fiction, history. Even our own America.