Living through gentrification feels like being routinely colonized. I haven’t figured out any other way to describe the term, or a lighter intro for that matter. Over and over again it’s erasure, appropriation, exploitation… It has become familiar in the most violent way, how communities of color have to somehow readjust to being displaced—somehow plan around being uprooted with homes and entire neighborhoods alike being snatched right from under us. By definition, gentrification is a process of changing the character of a neighborhood through the influx of more affluent residents and businesses. It is a common and controversial topic in politics and in urban planning. Ok, so then one may inquire about “urban planning.” Urban planning is a technical and political process concerned with the development and design of land use and the built environment; including air, water, and the infrastructure passing into and out of urban areas, such as transportation, communications, and distribution networks. From this bulk of information, I’ve got far more questions:  how does concern turn into the displacement of others, why do both displacement and gentrification get to toxify and damage communities under the veil of “community development,” or “urban revival,” why can’t we ever call it what it is, and will this country ever run out of ways to spite minorities?   

The process of gentrification rarely exists without mentions of the middle-class entering the chat as well. There has always been the supposed motive of “fixing up” districts/neighborhoods so that they conform to middle-class taste. Time and time again though, the economy obliterates the qualifications and standards of/for any type of middle-class. So, considering the racial demographic of middle-class America, where exactly does that leave us in terms of “changing” communities in order to accommodate a middle-class aesthetic? Physically, it’s always been quite clear who has been forcing their way in, by way of forcing others out; and yet it’s still so nuanced, how it relates to the civil unrest we regularly encounter. The variety of sugar-coated definitions by oppressive forces (and gentrifiers alike) can never encompass the trauma of community displacement for its victims, as it happens when long-time or original neighborhood residents move from a gentrified area because of higher rents, mortgages, and property taxes. I want this to be another honest account of how gentrification feels—how it has affected me and how I’ve seen it affect others, even before being able to recognize it as such.

In New York City the influx of wealth, rapidly increasing housing costs, the fading of independent businesses, and the displacement of locals originated in the 70s, when the city’s leadership began implementing policies that favor privatization and deregulation. Gentrification that resulted from these policies was stalled during the recession of the late 80s and returned under the tenure of Mayor Bloomberg. Then, Mayor de Blasio continued Bloomberg’s approach. My family has called the same place home for over 50 years. My grandmother often recalls not only moving into this apartment building in the late 60s with an influx of Black (and at the time, middle-class)families but also all of the Black neighbors she once had, and all of the culture that enriched the childhoods of my mother, aunt, and uncle. My mother recalls growing up in a Black neighborhood, attending predominantly Black and Hispanic schools within walking distance, and even clubbing with similar demographics as she got older. Gentrification usually leads to other negative impacts such as an encouragement of discriminatory behavior by people in power, and an emphasis on spaces that shut out low-income individuals and people of color. I went from being able to befriend the children of family friends and apartment-hop as a child, to being asked by new “neighbors” if I’m lost or looking for something/someone on multiple occasions, as a teenager. In the lobby of my own building. Over the years, gentrification has put us smack dab in the middle of tourism, the tone-deaf hipster rush, transplanting, brand new trendy establishments; and the changes have kept coming ever since. I walk around my neighborhood and observe. I remember what it used to be like, the neighbors I used to have, the family-owned restaurants and other ethnic businesses we used to frequent, and there is grief for what is gone. When life and home as you knew it have been discarded, you look around and suddenly you don’t feel like you belong. Your own neighborhood, much less Black now, is filled with forces that clarify how you do not.  In its simplest form, it has felt like a surplus of white people appearing, and the simultaneous, slow but steady shrinking of everyone else. Even this is a violence that isn’t stressed as violent enough.

The inspiration for this week’s write-up was a phone conversation with one of my dearest friends, who is no stranger to gentrification and/or community displacement. Her family was deeply rooted in the same Brooklyn neighborhood where I spent nearly half my life. When we think and talk about Bed-Stuy now, it’s bittersweet— the memories of friends, family, community, culture— everything that fought so hard to stay with immeasurable strength. People, places, and things that are no longer here. It was always more than just modernization, more than new buildings, new restaurants, new politics. It’s been the erasure of our history, community, and our sense of belonging in the name of aestheticism (with larger than life racial undertones), leaving us with what? The tenacity to take Brooklyn back? Could we even afford it; and without its once-predominant people or anything else that used to feel like home, what is it worth? For many of us, being a New Yorker has become synonymous with struggling. The cost of living increases each year. We see all these new developments and transformations as buildings are constantly demolished and replaced with luxury high-rises, yet the number of homeless residents continues to grow. Rent is ridiculous, food is the most expensive it’s ever been, and far too many are one paycheck away from financial instability, if not there already. Still very young but also conquering new levels of independence, the dream for future living and locations has had to change. The vision of success, the feeling of home, the bounds of community have changed. The determination to stay is felt just as much as the appreciation for not necessarily being tied down to one place as a professional writer. There’s a yearning for adventure and the possibility of finding great opportunities elsewhere, instead of witnessing your home be commodified; while always remembering where home is. I can’t ever forget how Brooklyn was, myself and so many others carry it in our cores as we create our own generational impact. May we expand. If we leave, may we have our own piece of home wherever we end up. May it always guide us back. For now, especially during a pandemic with no end in sight, the rest is still unwritten.