F*ck gentrification. And f*ck me too.
I think of it everyday, usually once I step out of my apartment. The "Bushwick Palace" - 4 floors filled with nouveau riche. We are young professionals, almost all from notNew York. We go to school, we go to work, we go out and party. We don't mind the 30 minute commute because we're only at home to sleep. We live among mothers, fathers, children, aunts, uncles. We live among families. Families that have known the BK all of their lives. They know BK worlds more than my Triple5 soul hoodie could ever show. More than my white neighbors' Brooklyn Industries man-pri pants can show.
Bushwick is home to mostly black and Latino families. There is no lack of people of color. So my dilemma...what does it mean for me to be a person of color in a 3 color palette? How about when my social identity as a student (grad student at that) speaks volumes about my SES. I know what the "natives" see while I'm walking to the L train for Manhattan, wearing my Northface windwall jacket, Levis and Nikes. Someone who doesn't quite resemble or represent their experience (yeah, a bit presumptuous).
So maybe I'm actually white out here. Changing race across borders like slaves who flirted with freedom as they travelled with masters. Who am I kidding? That's a horrible comparison too.
I'm priced out too. I want to be an advocate. I want to end this problem. But I have to live. Well, as my roommate and I say...
"Are you a part of the problem?
Or a part of the solution?
What's your contribution to life?"
-J5
rant over.
1 comment:
Same thing's happening in Potrero Hill and every other damn neighborhood in San Francisco. You saw the Section 8 housing across the street from my house. The Hill's voting on whether or not to kick them out. I vote no.
Post a Comment