Losing New York City — De Todo Un Poco

Aug 20

Aug 20 Losing New York City

“But in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” —Benjamin Franklin

There are several things I believe are as certain as death and taxes and gentrification is on top of my list.

I’m back in the States and not through my own accord—just like when I was brought against my will as a preteen. Two months shy of turning 13. I am a 1.5 generation immigrant. Look that up. I was brought to Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, at a very precarious age. Most of the neighborhoods I knew, and we lived in, then, are completely different from what they look and are now. A lot of us know this.

Living it, however, is a completely different story. Experiencing it while writing about hits entirely different. It elicits fits of soul-eating anger. A rage I’m intimate with—although it isn’t blinding. I can see clearly why I’m deeply upset and I only have my words to fight it. So many of us have been writing about it for decades now, but what has that achieved besides headlines and, perhaps, catharsis?

Being ripped out of your land is traumatic as hell. Seeing your people be exchanged, little by little, for a more affluent class is right up there with the things I don’t wish on anybody. But on my return, that replacement isn’t at all slow. I’d been gone only for a couple of months.

I left Brooklyn with only a couple of storefronts opened. Rent has been so high in New York City that it’d been asphyxiating business, especially small businesses, into closing its doors. Now there are numerous boutiques and restaurants opening and thriving—according to its high traffic—because rent prices are tumbling and some people are taking advantage of it. You don’t have to take a wild guess on who is opening these small businesses. For many of us, it isn’t surprising what demographic it is. You guessed it right. Young. White. The willfully obtuse type. I say willfully because I know they know what they’re doing to our neighborhoods. They know we can’t get loans to start those businesses. I know that even the last bastion of minority-owned shops is either flourishing or collapsing—depending on the elitist taste of the new inhabitants. And there’s nothing I can do about it but rage in the digital nets.

I have a family of my own now. I have a wife and a five-month-old now. I left them in a foreign land I call home to seek a better life for them in an unwelcoming foreign land because employment and the funds I’d managed to scrape through are vanishing. Leaving them is a curveball I was hesitant to strike because I had an idea of what was to come besides hoping for a better life, for stability. As many of our parents, I’m taking the same road, boarding the same flight, alone. Except I knew what awaited me.

I already held a lot of compassion and respect for immigrants, for refugees. Those who are children, like I was, when I had to flee, and those who are adults and leave back their partners and their children.

It’s completely different to know and feel. I am hyper-empathetic, I know. Perhaps in possession of hyperactive mirror neurons. I’m aware I’m ill-equipped to emotionally deal with the vagaries of this new world and I wish you knew how much I hate it. I wish you knew how much it pained me to leave my spouse and my baby; how much anger and pain are constantly eating at my body; the disdain I hold for everything that separates us from what is natural to us. Colonialism, imperialism, capitalism... hold special hate in my heart. I wish nothing more for them except for a rapid and ceremonious demise. For my family. For my village. For my people. For us.

All these thoughts are taunting me while I drive in my brother-in-law’s car down these saltine New York City streets. Of course, I’m salty. Who wouldn’t be? I’m a writer. I know people expect me to be frank about the state of the world and my own life. And, I am. I just wish that many of you joined us when we see, hear… injustice carried out against others and ourselves. Gentrification is right up there with those sinister things that separate our families—that make us flee our homes… for a supposed better life. Like many of us marginalized folks, I have nothing but mutual aid to survive these trying times, but when we can no longer pass the same twenty bucks among each other, what then? Will the banks give us loans to open a business? No. Will the white hipsters overtaking our ‘hoods hire us? I don’t even see that many Black and Brown busboys. So, also, no. Are landlords going to take pity on us and open their doors? Not really. We can’t afford to live, let alone thrive. Are orgs going to make it rain on us? Don’t make me aggressively laugh.

We once made this town vibrant, full of life. Besides the questionable odors, we’d also be exposed to sweet and distinct aromas that unlocked childhood memories from our neighbors’ kitchens, from our families’ restaurants, from our street vendors who’ve lost the war against a malicious gentrification abetted by so-called liberals. The Brooklyn twang I used to hear and sing has been supplanted by strange accents. Even the Spanish I hear is no longer Caribbean.

My soul is distempered.

I am not at peace.

I’ve never been.

We’re losing New York City.

New York City is losing us.

Trust.

I know gentrification is certain, but I will not go gentle into that good night.

I suggest you don’t either.

Rage.

Ignite.

Illuminate the world with your righteous indignation.

Make yourself heard and seen.

You feel me?

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